(from a few weeks ago)
I was thinking of ways to telepathically obliterate the fax machine that kept commandeering my workline, when I heard an actual voice on the receiver. My son, my happy boy, was not well and had vomited all over a teacher. How soon could I get there?
How is 7 minutes? In full motion? (Others might do well to learn from that example the next time they are faced with a crisis and have 7 mins to act…)
My little boy was not himself – ashen, slack. “…Go home” he murmured, arms around my neck the moment his teacher handed him to me. As if this wasn’t enough, he started to make a peeping sound, weak and sad. His ziti lunch sat untouched on the plate, another irrefutable testament to his illness. For the first time in nearly a year, I rocked him to sleep once we got home.
Once awake, he was walking slowly, or laying on my lap. A few more bouts of vomiting, a few more loads of laundry, and the first cleaning our couch has seen in, uh, years.
It’s been some time since he’s been sick like this, so passive and small in my arms. He is still small enough that my mommy moments predominate, but these were clearly set apart from the usual pleas to get one’s way. To be enveloped in warm arms and a blanket, to go slack in Mama’s lap, held up by a hug and a still flickering interest in Sagwa’s latest adventures – maybe this is the only way to weather out the stomach flu.