Making supper this evening was, as usual, a gong show. I tried not to give in to the TV demands and was doing well, despite the whining and hitting going on at my feet. As I casually scooped Felix out of the way with my foot to open the fridge door, he cranked up his protest. Drew upon the dark powers that be to turn his hemangioma deep purple. Then black. Blacker than I'd ever seen it before. He wasn't breathing - just stuck in that silent inhale kids do just before they let loose a scream so loud it makes you drop everything and run through fire to rescue them from whatever horror must be ripping them limb from limb.
I expected him to snap out of it and wail, but he didn't. He was sitting at my feet, looking up at me and spinning himself around in circles, gasping. I told him gently to breathe, then picked him up and blew in his face. That got through to him, he inhaled and then his eyes rolled shut and he collapsed against me. I think he actually may have fainted for a second. It was rather alarming.
So then the TV came on, while I tried to calm myself down and snuggle with the suddenly limp noodle in my arms. His hemangioma shriveled up and looked like a prune for a few minutes, then started to plump back up. Weird. Poor baby. Poor mama! Elliot was happy, though - the TV was back on!
Speaking of poor babies... I was saddened to hear that Patrick Swayze passed away last night. Who's gonna get poor Baby out of that corner now? Many great memories from that movie. Thank you, Mr. Swayze. RIP.