But it seems my feet are always busy in rather dull places, and when we're in fun places, my hands are full of baby instead of camera.
Last week, marmallow had a fever. It royally sucked. She is teething like a maniac, and therefore very clingy, drooly and sad. But the fever... it was not your typical low-grade teething fever. So we went off to the doctor. Of course, when we got there, it was the much more reasonable low grade variety, which made me feel dumb for bringing her in. But the doctor, seeing as she is not quite nine months, was not content to send us home. So they drew blood. And collected urine. And made both of us miserable for much of Thursday afternoon. And then, Friday, the fever was gone. And all the results were negative. Thank God.
But lil' b was very good, and patient, as I doted on his sister and set him down with distractions all weekend. He would ask me to watch what he was doing, or check out his drawings, but other than that, the only times he swept into the Mom-as-Sissy's-Nursemaid scene was to flit in, like an angel, and kiss her forehead, or gently sweep her hair out of her eyes.
And his reward was a fever of his own. Sudden, like lightning bolt on a sunny day. I got the call yesterday and found him at school, bundled in his blanket and shivering on his teacher's lap.
Fortunately, caring for a big kid is easier in many ways. I can give him reasonable doses of medicine. I can explain why the washcloth on his forehead needs to be so icy cold. I can ask him what hurts, and how long it has hurt, and is it any better than an hour ago.
But it is sad and hard to watch your babes suffer, and only be able to do so much. With both of them, I closed my eyes briefly during the night, power napping between doses of medicine and waking to rush into their darkened rooms and feel foreheads, adjust sheets, and pray. Always praying. My brain knows it's likely nothing, just a basic childhood illness. But when my children are sick, or hurt, the responsibility and priveledge of loving them feel like stones on my heart. I feel frantic inside, while I try to be as soothing and reassuring as I can on the outside. Every time they really, truly need me, I feel the weight of the miracle. The life created inside a woman is the gift, but the life that continues, struggles, and thrives outside is the burden and blessing of that gift.
I am floored by the trust the universe has placed in me.