Today was supposed to be my day of taking care of business – that is, all the business that needs taking care of before the brood is out of school for the next five days. But Devil Baby is sick, so I’m homebound. So much for shopping for Thanksgiving ingredients. So much for yoga. So much for popping into a store for something sparkly to wear to holiday parties. So much for picking up laundry detergent and toothpaste. Instead, I’m typing in bed next to a fitfully sleeping Devil Baby. She’s got flushed red baby cheeks, a messy pony tail and a lot to say. To call her a dramatic sick girl would be an understatement. Child is one verbose invalid. She’s like Howard Cosell, giving me the play-by-play of her ever deteriorating condition. Every twenty minutes or so she wakes up, feebly asks for a sip of Gatorade as if it’s some magical cure-all elixir, and shares with me the latest and greatest on her suffering, some of which would sound alarming if she weren’t simultaneously extending her pale little fingers in the direction of the plate of Nilla Wafers on the nightstand. So far this morning:
I’m so hot. I’m so thirsty. I can’t sleep. I feel like my eyes are made of glass. I feel like my heart moved into my brain. Something invisible grabbed me and moved me while I was sleeping. I’m going to ask for a bag of air for Christmas to help me breathe better. I’m really worried about myself. What if I don’t get better? Are you worried about me? I think I’m going to throw up. My head feels big. Something is wrong with my fingers. My brain won’t stop talking. I’m really really really worried about myself. My tongue is hot.
Oh, my sweet little drama queen. It is a privilege to hear you weave your tales of woe in that tremulous little voice that you use. Especially, since this will all be a faded memory for both of us by tomorrow.