James is two-and-a-half. He clearly didn't really get the concept of Daddy going into hospital until it actually happened. Charlotte is six and was crystal clear on the hospital thing - although thanks to her grandfather dying when she was two, she was pretty sure Daddy was going to go in and not come out. Lots of tears and trauma in the lead up.
In order to distance them from the events taking place and my own totally frazzled response to them, I sent them to stay with my Aunt over the days of and around the surgery. My aunt has never had children of her own but she's a bizarre sort of baby whisperer who can get even the most defiant of children to love her and do her bidding. My kids adore her, spend a lot of time calling her "my Gaylee" and when they're with her they almost forget that they even have parents - ideal for keeping them calm until Daddy was in a fit state to see them because honestly, when he came out of surgery, it wasn't pretty by anyone's definition.
Scary. When the kiddies did lob Charlotte was geared up and ready to nurse Daddy to death. She had to be forcibly restrained because her enthusiasm translated to some less-than-tender treatment of the patient. James was completely thrown by this new, weaker Daddy who couldn't even stand to have him up on the bed. The little guy stood to the side looking completely distrustful as though we'd clothed a very old person in a Daddy skin and the man on the bed was actually someone he didn't know at all.
He was not even going to touch the strange man in case whatever was going on was catching and he kept cuddling me and telling me he wanted to leave. As Daddy got better things improved for the kiddies but then we realised that Charles' legs were getting worse, not better, and the day he was due to go home they did a CT scan and that night they told us that he was going to need even more surgery and therefore couldn't come home.
My poor little girl bounced out of bed the following morning, madly excited that today was the day we get to bring Daddy home! Breaking the news to her broke my heart. As she sobbed in my arms my considerate toddler son, who had been mucking around taking pictures with my camera, thoughtfully took a picture of the exact moment her heart broke.
Round two was a lot less intense than round one and Charles bounced back admirably. The kids were allowed to climb into the bed for cuddles, providing they were careful, and as the days went past they got more and more confident.
Unfortunately there was further trouble brewing. I had been making full use of the generosity of my mother-in-law and aunt, letting the kids have sleepovers, arranging play-dates with friends, and generally being flexible with their daytime activities. But kids don't want flexibility, they want routine, schedules, rules, boundaries and above all, consistency. So as the days have worn on the poor little mites have started to unravel. For Charlotte it's been a subtle thing - the cheeky defiance creeping into her normally polite, helpful demeanor and then the biting sarcasm.
The real barometer has been poor little James who has become increasingly stubborn and willful, upping the rate of tantrums to three an hour minimum. He has also been bursting into tears and clinging to me when I take him to daycare, sobbing, "No Mama, my stay with you!" into my neck while the carers peel him off, and stamping his feet when I pick him up declaring, "My go to the hospital to see Daddy!" No amount of cuddles and reassurance, no measure of visits to see Daddy, seems to be able to compensate for being able to rely on Mama and Daddy both being there when he goes to bed and when he wakes. My son is nothing if not a creature of strict habits and routine. This up in-the-airedness is not to be tolerated.
Last night it took me forty minutes to get him to sleep while he clung to me, crying hysterically and begging me not to leave him. Fifteen minutes into the ordeal I looked up to find Miss Six watching all of it with her hands on her hips.
"You know what this is, don't you?" she asked.
"A tantrum?" I frowned in confusion.
Her eyes narrowed at my flippancy and she glared at me.
"No, this is too much Nanny and not enough Mama."
"But you like going to Nanny's," I said reasonably, gritting my teeth.
"Yes," she rolled her eyes, "It's fun but only if we do it sometimes. We need consistency and routine. We need to be at home with you and Daddy."
I stared at her in total disbelief before telling her to get her little rat fink Oprah-spouting bottom off to bed. As she huffed off in disgust James echoed her sentiment wailing, "home with you and Daaadddddyyyyyyyy."
"Told you," she said smugly, snapping the door closed on her way out.
We're almost there now. The second round of surgery was a total success and tomorrow the big man does come home. The kids are bursting with fizzy fruit-flavoured anticipation. James is delighted that strong, confident Daddy seems to be returning and, as we had dinner together as a family in the hospital cafeteria tonight both kids remained plastered to him, stroking, cuddling and seeking reassurance. But the very telling part came right before we left when poor little James turned his sternest voice to Daddy and instructed him thus, "Daddy, you promise, don't do it again your back. No more hospital."
Please, please, please, no more hospital.
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