Keeping Charlie happy in a tiny room for four days was even less fun that you'd imagine. Especially when you consider that he had to be in a crib under an oxygen tent for much of that time. Most sick babies are compliant and make things easy on their poor dear mothers by lolling about and staring listlessly. Not Charlie. He was happy, chipper, awake, and alert through most of the ordeal.
I did make one initial error. We hadn't been there but a few hours when I whipped out his Christmas present that had been hiding at Oma's. By whipping out the big guns, I taught him that acting bored and pretending to be hearty, healthy and hale between bouts of gasping for air will only result in the scrambling of the tall people in frantic efforts to find him more cool toys.
I realize that I am ascribing large motives to a small boy, but you have to remember that this is Charlie we're talking about here. Until this point, his needs have never been considered. Not once. He has never had this much time with this much attention focused on him. Nothing has ever once belonged solely to him. He realizes that he is finally getting his due and that the pesky sisters are nowhere near to thwart his plans. Sure, Melody tries her best with this puking-all-night bit, but not even Dixie's getting-hit-in-the-face-by-a-rope scheme comes close to 'Hey! I'm the baby and I can't breathe!"
Charlie has finally found a winning plan and is not letting it go.
He was actually really good during all the breathing treatments, poking, prodding, listening and measuring he endured during his, uh, unfortunate incarceration. And I will soon have the pics of him doing all the cute things he did to share, including games of hide-n-seek.
Which brings me back to the subject that is concerning me: Charlie is hiding his drinking from me.
As we were waiting to be discharged, he was walking around the room with a bottle of God-Knows-What. The ENTIRE bottle. Between nips, he kept opening the little cabinet door, setting it on the shelf, closing the door and looking at me with this big innocent grin. He showed me all six teeth.
Then he'd toddle around the room some more. Play with the buttons, go into his little hiding spots. As soon as he'd walked it off, he'd check to see if I was looking and return to where he hid the good stuff.
Pretty soon he was so desperate that he just stayed at the door, trying to not let me see him. He would open the door and stand behind it. I would hear the sound of him chugging from the nipple. As soon as the squeaking stopped, blue eyes and that same 'What, me???' grin would appear from nowhere, only to pop back behind the door, seeking more of the crazy juice.
It is the hospital's fault you know. Putting him on steriods, then bring him such horrible food at such long intervals that his tummy had no choice but to turn to it's former habit. I guess we'll be hitting the rehab hospital next.