I’m sitting on the floor of my sweet boy’s room, watching him sleep, hoping he stays that way. A few minutes ago I held him as he threw up on and near (but, alas, not actually in) the official orange bowl of sickness and doom.
The humidifier is blowing cool air next to me, a testament to the head cold he has been fighting the last few days. I wonder if the throwing up, an exciting new development, is related to the cold (maybe he swallowed a bunch of crud?) or is related to his sister’s brief bout of throwing up last week or is perhaps related to a fresh batch of germs delivered straight from the germ factory that is kindergarten.
I wonder and I fret. I have an important meeting tomorrow and then an even more important class on Saturday. What is my husband gets sick? What if my husband and the baby and the boy get sick? I am composed and responsive to the actual act of the boy getting sick: I get the bowl, I wipe his mouth, I mother him with great tenderness. But inside I fret, fret, fret.
And this is so selfish, right? I’m worried about the possible inconvienvce of a family sickness epidemic because I have work and school and a “to do” list a mile long, partially due to my own bout with illness last week that kept me from work for three days and has left me in the weeds with projects and emails.
So, I’ll sit on the floor, keeping the first watch tonight and will try to catch up on emails while the boy sleeps and I’ll hope he gets better soon.
Sleep tight, kiddo.