Worried Rowes

Last night, poor Madeleine took a really ugly fall down the staircase leading from her room down to the kitchen.  She is remarkably unscathed, with only a minor red bump on her forehead, but it definitely made for an anxious night for Ethan and I.  We checked her for any signs of concussion, and I held an ice pack to her head while I read her bedtime books, so we were pretty assured that she was absolutely fine by the time she went to sleep, but I certainly would have been much happier had the whole thing never happened.

And why did it even happen in the first place?  Sigh.  Somehow I managed to get her all wound up and goofy merely by asking her for a "Madeleine snuggle" before I read her bedtime story.  Instead, various OTHER objects, including her foot and Cowie, opted to give me snuggles, which got Madeleine giggling and full of energy.  So she did what any kid would logically do next: she decided to leave her bedroom to run downstairs and tell Daddy this: "It's levi-OOO-sa, not levi-o-SAAA." 

I guess she managed to put the spell on herself, causing her to fly through the air instead of going down the steps on her feet.  Thank God that she has such a durable, hardy little body, and that she's truly okay.

However, looking for warning signs of altered consciousness and hallucinations is not always the easiest thing when you have a kid like Madeleine.  Among the various nonsense she spouted as we lay in her bed, all of which got my heart rate pumping in alarm, were:

-"I was crying at camp because I wanted one of those flags that the BIG kids had that is a BIG, COATY flag that you wear like a COAT."

-(after I had iced her head for 20 minutes) "Mama?  My head feels REALLY hot!"

-"Mama?  Well, I *don't* have any broken bones, because... LOOK.  My bones are NOT missing!  And I don't have a broken head, because, feel it, it's all just kind of SQUISHY HARD.  But it HURTS when I'm SQUISHING my head around.  Mama?  Is my head my SKULL?"

-"Mama, do you think I have a spell and it's HOCUS POCUS?"

And so forth.  So, yeah, it luckily turned out to be regular Madeleine weirdness rather than concussion-based delusional Madeleine weirdness.  Today she was completely her usual self, with nary a complaint about her head or any part of her body.  Thank God.

It was Julia's turn to be worried today, not about Madeleine, but about ME.  Our vacuum has been intermittently shutting down mid-use lately, and over the weekend, Ethan determined the cause to be a few holes in the cord connecting the suction hose to the vacuum head.  Because of the potential electrocution hazards that presents, we decided we should head out to buy a new vacuum without delay.  So Ethan, the girls and I drove over to Best Buy, only to find that none of the vacuums there were optimal, and the only one we would consider buying just happened to be out of stock.  So we instead ordered one online and are awaiting its arrival.  In the meantime, I attempted to use the nearly-broken vacuum again, only to have the hairs on my forearms stand up straight in the middle of vacuuming.

Maybe Madeleine was right all along.  Maybe we should ALL be scared of the bapboom.

At any rate, Julia overheard me telling Auntie Caitlyn on the phone today about the vacuum problem.  As I lamented the crumb-covered rugs, Julia began loudly pleading, "Mama!  DON'T use the vacuum!  PLEASE!  Just DON'T USE IT!"

I reassured her that I wouldn't.  Then I thought to myself, "I'll just try to vacuum when the girls are at camp so Julia doesn't freak out."

Julia was on to me.  "You PROMISE you won't vacuum today?  EVEN when we're at CAMP?"

Darn it.

So I promised, but Julia was still worried, and decided to take matters into her own hands. 

"I think I have an idea!" she exclaimed, running out of the room, only to return with a wash-cloth.  She then got down on hands and knees to begin wiping the rug with the wash-cloth, which, unfortunately, works nothing like a vacuum.

My poor, sweet, darling little worrywort.

Even as I drove her to camp, I could tell that the thought was still on her mind. 
"Mama," she announced to me from the back seat.  "Do you know that our life would NEVER, EVER be the same and be so great if YOU weren't in it?"

I repeat: my poor, sweet, darling little worrywort.

Luckily, I was able to patch up the cord-holes with some electrical tape, so the vacuuming did actually occur, and the self-electrocution did NOT.  (Julia was extremely relieved when I presented this solution to her.)  In Julia's pronunciation/kindergarten spelling: Igliest I was able to get the rugs somewhat clean.  I will now anxiously await the arrival of my brand new, shock-free bapboom.