dinnertime…

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It’s my favorite part of the day.

The evening is winding down.  Books are scattered across the table as my studious child is bent over a book, brow furrowed in concentration. The other one is running in and out, doors slamming, as he tries to sneak past me once again. The dogs are watching, waiting for a small morsel to drop. I am laughing as I try swatting at my son to stay out of the pantry. He rushes just out of reach, a triumphant smile across his face.

It’s almost time for dinner.

The sound of onions and mushrooms sautéing in the pan. Fluid motions of chopping, the rhythmic sound of the knife slicing and dicing. With the flick of a wrist, the food is absorbing the heat and sizzle and beginning to meld into a meal. The smells are wafting into the house, and the sounds of laughter are mingling with the sounds of footsteps. My children are gathering around the table. Dinner is almost ready.

Matthew sits patiently, quietly. His chair turned towards me.  He loves to watch me cook. I know this about him.

Even on days when I barely have the energy to move, if my children are gathered around the table and I am cooking, I am in my happy place.

It was a subtle sound.  I didn’t even hear it at first.

As I am setting the table, my back is turned as I am dishing up pasta into a serving bowl.  My focus on gathering everything to take to the table.

There it is again.

I glance up, twisting my neck to see behind me.

Matthew’s face is red. His eyes are bulging.

He is sputtering.

Kaden and Peyton’s eyes widen.

My son jumps up.

Matt, are you ok?”  I can hear the panic in his little voice.

I set everything in my arms down, but Kaden is already rushing off towards the bedroom. Peyton is standing up out of her chair, unsure of what she can do to help.  I am walking quickly towards the bedroom, ready to grab the machine if Kaden is struggling.

Matthews face has gone from red to purple. He is trying to cough, but there is no sound.  A small wheezing gasp is all that can be heard.

Kaden comes running towards me, cough assist in hand. I can see the look of terror on his face as he glances from Matthew to me.

I smile, trying to reassure him that Matthew will be fine.

I press the “on” button, balancing the machine against my thigh, as I juggle the hose and mouthpiece.  It is taking forever to switch on.  I slowly count to three out loud. More for Matthew’s sake, to help him to remain calm and that he will be able to breathe again soon, than for myself.

One….Two…Three

Finally, the “swoosh” sound begins, indicating it is ready.

Matthew leans towards me, pushing his face into the plastic covering that encompasses his nose and mouth. The familiar sound as the machine forces the air in…then out fills the air.

After several deep breathes, Matthew leans back into his chair, relief across his features.  His face is still red. Tears streaming down his cheeks.  Snot dripping from his nose.

I set the machine down, grab a rag and begin to clean him.

This is automatic.  This is not the first time he has choked on his own spit….and it will not be the last.

I glance at my children, frozen in place. I give Peyton an encouraging glance and ask her to keep telling me about her day. Looks of terror on their little faces slowly dissipate and I can see their chest begin to rise.  They are only now realizing that they were holding their breathe.

And just like that, life returns to normal.

Our normal.

“So” I say, “What was the best part of your day?”

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