The EMTs and my sheep PJs
My husband and I called 911 recently, in the middle of the night, because we were afraid our one-year-old son was having trouble breathing. I’d woken up with that unspecific but certain feeling that something was wrong. My husband got to the crib first and picked him up; my son was burning up with fever, limp and clammy and not quite awake, taking grunting little breaths.
He is fine, was mostly fine all along. In retrospect, we could have waited a few minutes to see if he perked up—but when you think your baby isn’t breathing, you are not inclined to wait a few minutes to see what happens.
By the time the ambulance arrived, he had woken up enough to be crying. This reassured everyone that he was probably okay, and it freed up a little space in my worried mind to suddenly be aware of the fact that these strangers were seeing me in my pajamas. Pink and gray flannel pajama pants with sheep on them, to be exact, and a t-shirt that says, “My sister has the best sister in the world.” And my hair…well, let me just remind you that it was two in the morning.
