Progression

Oh, this boy.

He has my heart.

He’s such a nice boy.

And sometimes he’s such a naughty boy, too.

But I understand his heart, his humor, his dreams. Even his frumpy moods.

And I love him for it all.

So when he’s sick and feverish and fresh out of the tub, I can’t help it.

I have to sit with him and rub his back, feeling the heat seep through his polyester pajama shirt.

I have to rub his spiky wet hair and feel his forehead (again) and ask him if he wants popsicles. Ginger ale? A mint?

And his limpid eyes just look at me, not caring about anything but finding relief. Finding sleep.

And I think about how vulnerable we are, us mothers.

I think about how a little bug can scare you, how a fever can remind you how good you have it-  three healthy children to hold tight.

I love this job, this being a mother thing.

Of all the things I’ve done, all the things I dream of doing, this motherhood experience?

It’s my favorite job of all.

And? Probably the hardest.

Now get better, Connor-bear.

Get better soon. ‘Cuz I hate seeing you uncomfortable. ‘Cuz I hate seeing you sad. (Okay, and because the sickness in this house throughout this winter? Um, I kinda’ want it to stop now.)

See what I mean? This was your twin last week- (and the week before):

And this is her twin this week: No more, k, buddy?

K.

Get better.

‘Cuz I love you.

A whole bunch, little boy who has my heart.

~