Am I wrong for enjoying the days I get to stay home from work and take care of my sick child? It's not that I enjoy his discomfort or misery or that it delights me to see him cry or in pain. I love the part where he snuggles into me, looks to me for comfort only a mom can give, lets me give him as many hugs and kisses as I want. I suppose I am taking for granted that my boy is so rarely ill, and I am incredibly thankful for that blessing. I'm simultaneously thankful for these golden moments where I can once again hold him sleeping in my arms, lay my cheek on his sweet little head, and just soak up the overwhelming joy that fills me to be so close to him.
I'm not sure if all almost-4-year-olds are melodramatic, but mine sure is. When I went to take his temperature this morning, he wailed that it would "take years to do that." After I informed him, quite matter-of-factly I might add, that he did indeed have a fever, he began crying, saying, "Not a fever! Not a fever!" Perhaps I have a budding thespian on my hands?
And it turns out that not even a high fever can curtail the steady stream of chatter that flows so freely from his darling mouth. That boy has a lot to say, and only in sleep is he truly quiet for long. I know I'm naive for this, but I'm hoping this gift of gab will remain with him for years to come and enable us to have open communication during those very challenging adolescent years. A mom can dream, right?
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