Long story short, my fearless little Sour Cream snuck away from me as we were about to leave the pool, trying to stay longer, and slipped underwater and thrashed about until I furiously scanned for her and pulled her out. I spent four hours in the ER yesterday making sure she hadn’t flooded her lungs so she wouldn’t be a dry-drowning victim. She’s fine, though I wish to whatever it is I wish upon that she just wouldn’t keep insisting she can do everything her sister’s capable of.
I am emotionally spent, and played a couple of Turbo Werewolf games last night to get the fear out of my system and to try to push the image out of my mind. I’m glad I go back to work today, so I don’t have to sit here and think about it every second.
Sour Cream will be the death of me. She’s been in the hospital more times than my wife, and always because she tried to do something she had no idea how to do. Having Skim first – a girl who always knows her limits and is careful about them, and dives into challenges slowly and methodically – has ruined me, and has made it tough for me to acclimate to the much more difficult Sour Cream, who requires close attention sometimes even during the most banal activities, just because she might decide to dive off of a futon or climb up to get her own brown sugar when I don’t even know she wants it.
Everyone with more than one kid knows that one poses more difficult challenges and causes more stress than the other, but these two are night and day.
God, she scared me.
It’s a pretty bad time for a $200 co-pay, too, but as fortune would have it, the Milkmaid’s stronger and restructured health insurance just came through so the rest is taken care of. So there’s that.
Sigh. Breathe, Milkman.