We’re all sick right now, and because this is a family-friendly weblog, I will not give any symptoms because, well, why? Let’s call it the New York City Death Virus. If you live in Angelborough, please do not breathe anywhere near my house.
Last night while I was down for the count, two-year-old Kiddo#4 climbed into bed with me. By now, I’m used to awakening in the middle of the night with a very big face right in my face, a stuffed penguin named Gwinn tucked under the Kiddo’s arm and my blankets being ripped off me. He’ll ask something very important, such as, “What that spell?” and then, in my befuddled sleepy state, I must flail for whatever word he might have seen written in his dreams (“Was it CAT?“) and then he gives a satisfied, “Yes,” and he and Gwinn cuddle up to me.
So there I was, fully occupied with misery, when Kiddo#4 climbed into bed with me, clutching Gwinn, and sat looking at me for a minute. He asked me to come downstairs, and I said, “No, sweetie. Momma’s sick.”
And then, instead of hearing him tell me I had to get over myself and come downstairs to do puzzles, I felt his hands on me. He lifted my arm, and he pushed Gwinn at my chest, then pressed my arm back down over Gwinn.