The door to my son’s room is open so as I walk by I see the the evidence of his sickness: the beach towels on the bed and the floor, the large plastic bowl, the humidifier that had been puffing cool air out on my wane and sweaty boy.
It is late, very late, at night and the door is open because he is not there.
He is at the hospital, where he has been hooked up to an IV and been admitted for some fluids and observation. I hope, very much, that he and his papa (who is with him while I stay home with the baby) are both sleeping. Lord knows they are both exhausted after two nights of throwing up.
The thing is that I know he’ll be okay. The fluids will help perk him up and get him hydrated again. The doctors will figure out why he is sick and what he needs to get better. He’ll be home tomorrow or the next day, hopefully on his way to being back to his normal self.
But, oh, I miss him tonight and it feels so wrong that he isn’t sleeping here and that I’m not with him.