My poor little buddy has been teething like crazy the last week or so — fingers constantly be gnawed on, saliva running down his fists, elbows, and leaving puddles on the floor. And of course, a touch of fever. So lots of time in my bed rather than his.
And now he’s got an awful cold — I suppose that’s hard to avoid when you’ve been jamming your fingers in your mouth for days, everywhere you go, no matter what you’ve touched. He’s had tears streaming down his cheeks all day long, and not because he’s been crying. Just because his whole face is running. He couldn’t nap, due to choking on phlegm, and only got a few minutes of sleep when he would finally succumb as I rocked him. Now he’s at last in bed, snuggled in my bed, still coughing. I feel so bad for him. I hate it when he’s sick.
So, I got very little done today. In fact, I have no idea how an entire day passed while I did [what felt like] nothing. But oddly enough, my day of doing nothing felt more full of meaning and purpose than most of my productive days ever do. As I spent a whole day offering juice, running for the tissues, and holding a warm and distraught little boy, I knew that those moments mattered. And was thankful, again, that my mom served us as though being a mom was a high and holy calling. Because it is.
Also of note, the blackberries in the backyard are ripening. Um, can you say YUM? (I can’t convince Jameson to try one, so I get them all to myself!)