No one sleeps well when there's a sick kid in the house. Certainly not the brother who's bothered by the tossing and turning, the discomfort beneath the shared covers. But he's soon spared his sleeplessness when the blanket-wrangler hops his bunk to climb in with his parents.
No mother can sleep when her baby is coughing or crying, feverishly hot but no fever according to the thermometer. Throat so raw she wonders how he can continue to protest. We're up for water, we're down for the count. Low rumbling snores like toy trucks rolling over gravel.
And even when his little sleeping body has finally fallen still, when all seems quiet once more, she is awake. Mistrustful, perhaps, of the early morning calm, or merely wired from the last hour's unrest. Morning will come before she is ready, and with it the day's demands. Sleep is an errant knave.
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