Thursday evening I thought you felt warm. Friday morning it was apparent you were definitely coming down with something.

“I want to stay home with you, Mama,” you said, your arms wrapped around my neck, clinging. And so you did, and Nana came to visit, instead.

Saturday you were not yourself. You hardly ate — the very first sign, above a fever, even, that something is wrong. And while you played, your usual spunk was missing. The slightest thing made you cry (doing things in the wrong order, getting your feet caught in your pant legs, missing a mitten).

There is nothing sadder than a normally vivacious toddler with the light missing from her eyes.

“Mama, I’m so cold.” You are buried under four blankets in bed.

“Mama, it hurts in there.” You are pointing inside your mouth to your throat.

By Saturday evening, you are almost heating the whole house, you are so hot. Your cheeks blaze. Your eyes are glassy. You keep stuttering when trying to talk, and increasingly trip when trying to walk. Medicine is no longer helping.

We are sure the flu has enveloped you.

This is the first time you’ve been really sick and been able to communicate to us exactly what it feels like. While this is a blessing in one respect, it makes it even more difficult knowing how you’re suffering.  I just want to wrap you in my arms and absorb your pain. Our sweet little Lucy.

We give you a warm bath, and get you into bed. You are limp with fatigue and fever, but still giggle weakly when I spin you ’round the room. We know you’re still in there.

“I want a cuddle, Mama. In here.” I crawl into bed with you.

In the soft glow of your Dora nightlight, you caress my hair and kiss my nose again and again. We are curled together under the mountain of blankets, and you hold my hand under the covers. I rub your burning forehead and kiss your cheeks. You whisper to me about the polka dots on your walls, how much you love Daddy and baby Alice and Spencer Dog. How you are still so cold.

“Stay in here, Mama.”

Over the monitor, we hear your laboured breathing. You toss and turn and cough. Never settling.

We give you more medicine, earlier than the bottle says we should. But we have to do something. After a cuddle with Daddy, you finally fall into a deep slumber near midnight.

At 4 a.m., after feeding your sister, I creep into your room and lay my hand on your forehead. It’s cool for the first time in days. I relay this to your Daddy when I crawl back into bed, and we both breathe a sigh of relief before sleeping deeply ourselves for the first time in days.

Sunday you cough — not unlike a seal — into your arm as we taught you, and sound like you’re recovering from a hard night at the bar. But you’re smiling. And when you start jumping off your chair in your room and landing with a thud and roar of laughter, we know you’re back.

Oh, my sweet girl. I never, ever want to wish illness upon you. But it feeds some need in me to be able to take care of you, to crawl into your bed and give you some measure of comfort that can’t be found in a bottle of medicine.

This morning she bounded off to daycare with nary a backward glance, happily leaving sickness and I behind to go “Play, play, play!.” But absorbing some of the germs must have worked, as the snot is free-flowing out my nose, my head is stuffed with cotton, and Eric says he thought a freight train was in our room last night. Now we pray Alice is spared and the antibodies in my milk keep her strong and resistant. Was it worth it? I’d crawl into her bed again in a heartbeat.

Possibly related posts:

1. Lucy speak, 7-8 a.m.
2. Surviving The Sick
3. Pregnancy, when you’re 2.5
4. You do what? Cool! I mean sick (sic?). Isn’t that what the cool (sick? sic?) kids say? How about neat-o. Um…interesting!
5. Of course the car wouldn’t start! Or: Sicker than we thought. Or: How Julia and the turquise van saved the day.