We're on day three of sick and I'm moping around the house in my pajama pants and tee-shirt, hair pulled back in haphazard pony-tail situation, rubber-banded with the stretched out elastic from a deceased shower cap.
I look like a bag lady. I feel like someone is kicking me in the face and squashing my heart. I haven't slept in two days but that's not why. I hate that my baby is in pain and I wonder how mothers of chronically ill kids deal.
Archer's fever peaked at 103.7. That was yesterday so at least the worst is behind us. I may bitch and moan about how difficult it is to raise a toddler but chasing Archer around the neighborhood like a maniac is nothing compared to lying on the couch, rubbing his little back and singing "the ants go marching one by one..." for two days.
Last night he cried "mama" for hours, pulling my arms around his waist, burrowing into my chest and there was nothing I could do.
And that sucks. Worse than poop for presents and tantrums in the street. That stuff is easy breezy compared to watching Archer writhe in discomfort. Now that's torture.
And so I sit, with my computer in my lap and Archer curled up at my elbow with his red blankie and his binky and his red cheeks, hoping with all my might that the fever will pass soon so we can go back to the usual toddler shenanigans.
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