Michelle went down first, as usual, but when the screaming didn’t stop, I came down. “It’s a nightmare,” I said, rubbing my eyes.
“No, it’s physical. Look.” Michelle pointed at Celia’s posture. As I watched, I thought she may be right. But still, I tried singing first. Her wails drowned out the song, and I eventually gave up. I held her and Michelle stood up to warm up some milk.
The milk didn’t sooth her either. “I’ll bet it’s either her stomach or her teeth,” Michelle looked at me. “Did she eat sand at the park today?”
“No.” We’d had a great time at the beach, sorting through rocks and watching birds, but she’d been surprisingly good about not eating sand.
“How about bath water? Did she drink any of that?”
“Not really.” She had drunk a little, I could tell from the coughing she’d had, but not enough to give her a sick stomach.
We sat and watched our wailing daughter for a moment. Then I said, “Celia, what hurts?”
She looked at me with tears streaming down her face.
“Is it your belly? Or is it your teeth?”
Celia’s cheeks were bright red and she continued to cry.
“Does your belly hurt? Or is it your teeth that hurt?”
Celia pointed at her teeth.
Success! Instantly, Michelle and I felt a sigh of relief pass through us. Simply knowing what the problem was made a tremendous difference.
“How much Tylenol did you give her?” I asked Michelle.
“One milliliter.”
“I’ll give her a bit more.” I stood up and grabbed the bottle. Before I’d even returned Celia was already calming herself down. I looked at her in surprise. I wonder if the simple fact that Michelle and I were calmer was helpful.
As I gave her the medicine, I thought to myself, “This is a great moment.” The first time she’s been able to show us what’s wrong. Up till now, for the last year and a half, it’s been a crap shoot. She starts crying, and we play the guessing game as to what’s really wrong. Now, just like that, the mystery is over. She can communicate. And already I feel so relieved, I’m amazed.
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