Sunday night I came home to one very sick child. And when I say very
sick, I mean, scary sick. A kind of sick I had yet to experience with
either of my kids ever. Apparently it started Sunday morning but by
Sunday evening, Archer was immobile. Refusing to leave the corner of my
parent's couch. His eyes were swollen. He was shivering. 104 fever.
Whimpering.
"I think you should stay here," Hal said. "I don't know if traveling back to LA is such a good idea right now."
And he was right. So Hal took the train back home and I stayed with the kids at my parent's house.
Archer, the picture of health (and angst) before I left for the weekend.
"He probably has the Swine Flu," my mom said.
"OH MY GOD! Really? Should we take him to the hospital? AHHHHHH!!!!"
"Nah, he'll be fine," she said.
And
she was right, of course, but Sunday night was the first time in a long
time that I spent the night worrying. In between rounds of "Moon River"
and dabbing Archer's face with cold washcloths, I lied awake, listening
to my babe's heavy breathing, totally afraid. And I started to think
about parents who tend to sick children all the time. About the sick
kids I used to work with and how their parents spent YEARS worrying, dabbing, singing, rocking, being afraid...
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