About two years ago, shortly after C was put on oxygen, we went on a family picnic. Once situated, C began to toddle around, exploring the area, when his oxygen tube got tangled in the backpack. I was struggling to untangle the mess when C reached the end of his tether and was yanked backward. In a moment of frustration, I threw the tube down on the ground.
All the weight of what we were facing seemed to come down on me at once.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I snapped at my wife.
She said, “We have to try to never lose our cool over C’s oxygen tube in front of him. It’s bad enough he has to deal with it, he shouldn’t feel guilty that it’s making our lives hard as well.”
Negotiating the oxygen tube hasn’t gotten any easier; if anything, now that he’s about three, it gets caught on everything he’s near. Nonetheless, my wife’s admonition rings in my ears every time I start to lose it, and I remind myself that none of this is his fault.