When the rain started in Portland last week, so did the snot. Abe got it first, with a hacking cough that lasted a week. We made sure the humidifier was plugged in and on every night. Vicks vapor-rub on his chest. He got better. For maybe twelve hours, all of us were well.
All weekend, Ted and I were sick. Ted kept working while I stayed home, foggy-brained from cold meds, bemoaning the distance between us and my mom or sister, both of whom would have taken Abe for me while I was sick. I sucked it up (literally. sometimes blowing it out too) and took the well-child to a movie. Then we made rice krispy treats. Then he watched another movie at home. He got a little spoiled because I didn't feel good.
Monday morning, I'm feeling a little more normal, and he wakes up sick again. The crud has moved north into his head, rivers of snot flowing. We use the bulb syringe the way we did when he was a baby. He never cried then. Now it's torture.
I carry him up to his bed, and he wants me to lay down with him. I do. We talk about the apple crisp we're going to make when he wakes up, which leads to many questions about Martha Stewart, who she is, who has met her, where she lives. He asks if we can pray. I say, "Okay. So thank you God for today, the sunshine, for Martha Stewart, and apples from our neighbor, and ... what are you thankful for, Abe?"
Being mom to this little boy is my most favorite thing I've ever done.