Croup

I hate croup. I hate it, hate it, hate it. I hate it more than I hate barfing, which is what I thought Zazzy was doing when he cried out at 1 a.m. Loulou never had a croup episode, but the other three at one time or another have awakened out of a sound sleep coughing, gurgling, crying and gasping for air. That awakens parents out of a sound sleep to instant terror.

We know now what to do, more or less: turn on the shower, pray, make tea, hunker in for a long damp sit in the steam with a whimpering child on your lap. It’s not as scary as the first time with Mina, but I still hate it. Mr. Pete-za once had a croup episode that took him to the ER for steroids because an hour of steam didn’t make the gurgly, blocked sound in his throat go away. All the croup entries in the books I like to call Mom’s Book of Medical Worries say important but impossible things about how essential it is that the parent to stay calm lest the panicking child pick up on the fears of the panicking parent, making the child panic more and breathe less. Much easier said than done when your kiddo can’t breathe. Once I woke up and knew something was wrong just because Manuski was talking much TOO LOUDLY and CHEERFULLY for the middle of the night. That made us all panic, so I took over baby holding duty, and he made the tea. This time at least Zazzy could breathe well enough to tell us in frustration, “It’s not working!” meaning breathing I assume. Yikes. He’s better now.