She stares up at me with those deep, twinkling blue eyes.
I hold her in my left arm while my right arm wills itself to hold the mask up to her face.
She grabs it like it’s a microphone.
And she sings.
And she laughs.
And she bats those long eyelashes. The same eyelashes her daddy has.
While she sings, moist air flows into her lungs . . . prying them open like a crowbar. Opening her chest with the same motion I slide her pink gingham curtains each morning.
The whole family joins in the concert. . . brothers dance a jig to the tune of Jesus Loves Me.
Every toy becomes a music instrument.
The nebulizer our base.
We exist to entertain her. To will her lungs to clear up. To beat her temperature down with our Melissa and Doug hammer.
Because we love her.
Now that the scare is over . . . I can tell you. I can process. I can write.
I met pneumonia. And I don’t like it. Especially when it preys on my children.
