Nobody likes to be sick. Grown men have been reduced to snivveling toddlers. Even mommies will call for their mommies. But there is nothing worse than seeing a little guy suffering through the coughs and the fevers and the queasy tummies and the dreadful upheaval of last night's supper.
Poor E. It came on so quick. One night he was racing the halls, playing in the tub, a little hoarse in the throat maybe, but still -- the next minute he's up with a burning forehead and a coal miner's cough and his little body heaving and heaving. Poor lamb.
He slept all through the next day. When his daddy took the picture above, E perked up and said, "You should take a picture of me throwing up." Only a three-year-old boy would want to keep that memory.
J's mother always used to tell her to "feed a fever" and so J ensured that her patient got a healthy breakfast when he was up to eating solids.
Cheerios. Breakfast of champions.
And E needed all the cheering he could.
But with a little encouragement from the engine that could...
our boy fueled up and was good to go.
Two weeks later, going on three, he still has the cough. He still wakes up with his eyelashes crusted together. He's getting better at covering his mouth and remembering to ask for a tissue instead of wiping his nose on his sleeve. At least he's sleeping through the night again, so long as he gets to lie next to mom.
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