It’s three in the morning, and Bean has toddled into bed with a fever, a fever that we thought was on the mend last night. I immediately leapt up and checked her pajamas and her bed linens for the pile of vomit that I was sure was going to be there: nothing. So we spread a towel on Dim’s side of the bed, chucked her on it, and Dim went to get some semblance of a full night’s rest in Bean’s room. (Since he has to deal with other adults today in a professional setting: I will be lucky if I manage a shower and clean underwear. He gets the sleep this time. Hopefully, he will remember this next time, but I doubt it.)
I had a bucket handy, and I spent the rest of the wee hours stroking her back and listening to her sniffle and hack. We both managed to fall asleep just as the sun came up (and by asleep, I mean that I managed to doze off while she had her hot little feet wedged in my back as I teetered on the edge of the bed since my two-year old takes up more room on the mattress than an EPILEPTIC MANATEE.)
I try to stifle a cough of my own, but it’s no use. It wakes her up. “Are you okay, Mama? Are you okay?”
Yes, sweetie. I’m fine. Go back to sleep.
Cute little thing. She’s burning up, snotty, and coughing, but she wants to know that I’m okay. What a sweetheart.
I guess I don’t mind hot feet jabbing me in the back so much.