It is raining and I am tired. The youngest gingerbread boy was up last night at 12:42 am, then 1:30 am, then 2:15 am.
And he wants me.
Not that Daddy is an option right now considering he has shingles and is down for the count himself.
It's me he wants to hold his head, to get a wet washcloth, to sit by his bedside, to read to him, to carry him to the bathroom. To be.
And the whole time he says, "I love you so much, Mommy."
And he says, "I don't want to miss school. I haven't missed school all year because I was sick, and they give out prizes at the end of the year."
And he says, "You used to call me sickie-poo when I was little and got sick."
And he says, "I wish I didn't feel so awful."
And he says, "Will you pray with me, Mommy?"
So I pray with him and I call him sickie-poo and pumpkin. And I sit by his bedside. And I rub his back. And I hold his head over a bowl. And I bring him a wet washcloth. And I give him sips of water. And I read to him.
And I am exhausted. And my back hurts from perching on the edge of the bed. And I am cold. And it is dark. And the rain comes down. And I want to go back to bed.
But I don't. I call him sickie-poo and pumpkin and take his temperature and bring him chewable ibuprofen, grape-flavored, and I hold his head over the bowl and get him a wet washcloth and wash my hands for the millionth time.
Because that's what we do, isn't it?