A short post. My littlest boy is sick. His cheeks are hectic with colour, his skin hot to touch and yet covered in goose bumps. His ears are red, his eyes are too bright. He is twitching in his sleep, this child who usually lies as soft and still as the night itself.
He crumpled himself into a cuddle with me tonight and asked if he could share my bed. He wants us to wake up together. How could I resist?
Despite my lack of Florence Nightingale instincts, I am ready. By the bed: a bottle of water, little boy Panadol, a cool washcloth, a torch so that I can see what I’m doing without hurting his eyes.
There’s little to be done except wait and keep the fever at bay as best I can. How I hate the waiting. The watching. The wishing it were over.
So now I’m off to bed. Early. Ready for the restlessness that surely awaits.
Looking forward to a new day.