My god, he ain’t half puffing and panting as soon as he’s doing something, poor sod. He even gets out of breath when he’s lying still in his bed and I’m about to say goodnight. The situation has worsened lately and you can tell it’s time for the operation now.
Or, actually – ‘worse’ is maybe the wrong word. I don’t really think Abbe is feeling that bad. He doesn’t feel ill, if you see what I mean. But he can’t quite cope. He struggles to make the little oxygene that his blood can provide for his body last for a two-year-old’s activities. A bit like jumping, climbing, running and messing around at an altitude of 4000m, in case you know what that feels like.
But Abbe doesn’t seem to have grasped that himself. He doesn’t seem to care he can’t play around as much as he wants. He is like a Duracell rabbit, energetic, intense, stubborn and very restless, compared to other children. During one afternoon, he can build Lego, play with the Brio railway and the marble-run (incredibly fun toy), play with all his cars, build a hut using all the cushions and duvets in the house. He has the time to make figures with his Play-Doh, play pirate, sing and jump around and he will also make time for climbing up and down all the chairs and tables dozens of times.
On top of that, he will also cough, pant and lie down on the floor and rest inbetween playing. As for me, I can hardly take in what’s happening.