Confession: I Breathed Fire Again Last Night

By Paint Her in Color Founder, Laura Spiegel

I have something to confess. More nights that I’d care to admit, I turn into a fire-breathing dragon. Smoke squeals from my ears as I spew out commands. Then orders. Then rage. It happened again last night around ten o’ clock.

What’s that? You think the chaos could be linked to the late hour?

Possibly. But it’s summer, and we’ve all got to live a little. Even if you’re six and eight, like my daughter and son.

My fire breathing is usually linked to my daughter’s respiratory therapy. She has cystic fibrosis, and twice a day, she nebulizes medications and straps on an electric vest that percusses her lungs. Once upon a time, completing a session was as simple as finding the right show to watch on Disney Jr. Or breaking out a new puzzle or board game.

These days? Completion of the task requires Jedi mind tricks and Buddha patience and a bag of tricks from far and wide. It’s not that the therapy is overly difficult or painful for my daughter. It just requires sitting still for thirty minutes at a time.

Which for a six-year-old, is no joke.

Also, it’s something that she has to do. One thing of many. Her desire to do vest on her own terms is understandable. It’s something that she can control.  

Unlike my emotions, apparently.

Last night’s firestorm began with a gentle request. It was seven o’ clock and time to do vest. Five minutes turned into ten minutes turned into three episodes of Peppa Pig. Daddy Pig flipped his pancake onto the ceiling as a I quietly sat and strategized. Perhaps a friend could help?

My daughter’s best friend walked over and sat patiently with her. The vest was strapped on. The “start” button was pushed.

And then paused. Snack time, of course.

Snacks were eaten. Drinks were slurped. The vest began to jiggle.

Ten minutes in, a rainbow appeared. The girls traipsed outside to ooh and awe at its magnificence. Instead of enjoying it, I couldn’t help but think.

We have to do vest.

We were back inside. The vest was back on. A few minutes went by before the next pause.

Potty time.

Then more Peppa Pig. Followed by a quick negotiation that ended with me agreeing to let my daughter sleep in my bed. For just one night.

Again.

With the terms agreed upon, the vest resumed. I held my breath. I opened a magazine. I heard the silence.

The vest was paused again.

Tummy ache.

Two hours after we began, fifteen minutes of the thirty-minute session were complete. It was after nine o’clock. My daughter laid down and declared exhaustion.

I raised my white flag in defeat. Fifty percent could be rounded up, right?  

Time to call it a night.

We headed up the stairs. I looked over the balcony and spied my son with his sock in his mouth. The dingy sock he wore all day. He was apparently checking to see if he stepped on anything yummy.

“Like dog poop?” I asked.

“Like candy,” he smiled.

The kids made it to the bathroom. Silence, followed by the sound of a hand smacking skin. My daughter had slapped my son’s bottom. Who knows why?

He retaliated with a pinch.

She began to cry. Not from the pinch, but from the sudden recollection that her brother had refused to share his Sweet Tarts earlier in the day. “Why was he always so mean?”

His eyes widened. “Why should he share?” His sister had tried to de-pants him at Kohls.

What the…?

There were tears.

There were shouts.

My fuse burst.

The flames flew from my mouth as I muttered curses and bellowed punishments and slammed doors.

No more patience. No time for prayers or songs or kisses.

I was at the end of my rope.

Silence. Then a moan. Flopsy was missing.

Flopsy is the stuffed animal I bought before my daughter was born. His ears have been chewed and resewn. Limp strings dangle from his limbs.

Flopsy is hands-down her most prized possession.

One Christmas Eve, Flopsy got lost at church. He was found two days later - hanging on the chain-linked fence “like Jesus hanging on the cross.” At least, that’s how my son put it.

A shout! My son had found Flopsy again.

The two settled into silence.

I crept into my daughter’s room and sat on her bed. “I’m sorry I turned into a fire breathing dragon tonight,” I said. “I’ll try to do better tomorrow. You can help me by doing your vest.”

No answer. She was asleep.

I crept into my son’s room and sat on his bed. “Mommy and Daddy are human, too. We get tired. We need you to help us by listening. And by not eating your socks.”

He nodded and went to sleep.

I awoke hours later to find him sidled up next to me in bed, his heart beating into my back. I savored the moment. This was what life was all about.

Holding the ones we love close.

Giving each other second chances.

Recognizing that we are not perfect.  

Asking for forgiveness.

Smiling in anticipation of another day.

A few hours later, my son woke up. “Ugh,” he declared. “You have dragon breath.”

Tomorrow will be better.