My boy

Twenty minutes ago, Henry was cradled in my arms like a baby. He was a pain tonight; getting out of bed, hiding behind his door, trying to wander the house. We’d catch him and he’d grin. ‘I have to go pee!’ or ‘I heard a noise in my room!’ Exasperated, and growing less and less nice every time, we marched his butt back into bed and told him in our firmest voices ‘NO MORE GETTING UP.’

The last time he got up Tony and I made a big production of it. We looked at each other and rolled our eyes. We threw our hands up in the air. ‘What is it THIS time!?’ Henry smiled. ‘I have to go pee.’ He went into the bathroom, sat down on his potty, and immediately covered 56% of the room in projectile vomit. 

Henry is our second, and we basically have the routine down. Tony ran into the bathroom to comfort Henry while I swept the house for towels, paper towels, lysol, fresh jammies, ginger ale, and tylenol. I walked into the bathroom and poor Henry was still going at it. Tony was trying to get him to aim for the rug, when my baby looked up at me and choked out, ‘I’m sowwy, mommy.’

WHAT! WHAT! Tony and I spent the next five minutes or so promising him that REALLY, it’s OKAY. Seriously, kid. SHIT HAPPENS.

Finally, after the bathroom was clean, and the boy was clean and freshly (re)dressed, I took him to bed. He wanted me to cradle him, so I propped myself up against his headboard and wrapped my arms around him. He closed his eyes and nuzzled his tear-blotched little face into my arm. His other arm was wrapped tight around his baby doll. I bent over to kiss his forehead. He opened his eyes a little. ‘Thank you for these soft pajammies, mommy,” he mumbled, and then immediately fell asleep.

It hurts when my kids are sick. I never want them to hurt or be afraid. But. It is nice sometimes to be so reminded of what I am for, which is them. I am for them.