My son is sick. The kind of sick that wakes him at 3 a.m. on fire and shivering. I left him in his bed and went downstairs to get water and Tylenol. When I came back, I found him clutching the banister for dear life because he was too shaky to stand. “Mommy, I had to go potty.”
Poor baby. I scooped him up and carried him into the bathroom. He was so hot that the skin at his joints was turning a deep red. “Mommy, my tears hurt,” he whimpered against my shoulder. I fed him Tylenol and got a washcloth damp with one hand. Put it on his forehead. Then his neck. Then his legs. Then his arms.
He sat shaking and listless while I frantically looked for a working thermometer.
“Mommy, I just want you to hold me.”
Thermometer found, I watched it skip quickly past 98, 100, 101. The battery fizzled out at 102.6. My mommy-cheek/baby-forehead test told me his fever was well over 103. I tried to coax him into taking a cool bath, more wet washcloths, anything.
We settled on the couch with no blanket. “Mommy, just lay next to me.”
—-
Today I *have* to work. None of my daytime coworkers are even in the state. So I am managing my son’s care from the sidelines, juggling customers, and explaining why the store was not open at 10 a.m. I have not showered. I haven’t even changed my socks. I am tired and feel helpless. All I want is to comfort my little boy. I am his mother. I should be home to make soup. Ply him with Tylenol. Feed him fruit juice popsicles. Hold him close.
If this is learning to give up control, I want no part of it.
