Posted by: alainnneart | July 1, 2009

and it starts sometime around midnight

A restless night breaks way into a quiet dawn.  The rose colored hue breaks of the bay in a swirl of colors that could rival Maxfield Parish for the exquisite beauty of life.  I am sitting, in my rocker, next to my bed, with a small blanket over lap.  I have not slept.

Around midnight, he came into my room, looking beautiful and yet grotesque, stunning and disturbed, awakening me with gentle shakes.  I look at him, unaware of my surroundings.  Poor SC, he looks as if he has seen a ghost.   His eyes are darting around the room, brow soaked in sweat, his face pale.  He is shaking in the cold air that he is unaccustomed to without his blankets.

I ask SC what is wrong? Did you have a bad dream?  He opens his mouth and before he can answer, he vomits over himself, his PJ’s soaked in left over mac and cheese from dinner earlier in the night.  The vomit pools on the floor, on my poor little baby, as he bursts into tears.

I quickly sit up and hold SC, vomit and all.  He is sweating.  He has a fever.  All my professional training kicks in.  I carry my crying boy to the bathroom, soothing him as we go.  The light is cold, artificial and blinds us after we leave the darkness of my room.  We take his temperature: 101.6.  I place SC in the bathtub and take off his dirty pajamas.  I shower him off in a warm shower and wrap him in his fuzzy pink towel he likes.  It smells like lavender.  In my arms, SC closes his eyes, shivering, and begins to suck his thumb.

I walk back to my room, carefully, and place SC under my quilt in my bed.  I run to his room to find clean pajamas and come back to find him almost asleep.  He looks so peaceful, despite the sweating brow.  I don’t want to wake him, but I must.  I sit him up in a daze and feed him children’s Tylenol.  I pull the rocker over to the bedside and sit down.

SC looks at me, with his blue eyes, usually so bright and happy, now foggy and dazed.  He struggles to sit up.  I hush him back into bed.  He still sits up and crawls over to my lap.  He curls up in my lap, weight crushing my legs, feet hanging over the edge of the rocker.  He is too big now to be held but still there is a comfort of being held by mom and rocked slowly in the darkness.

He snuggles under my chin, his breathing fast, and his brow dripping sweat.  I sing quietly to him, “with the lights out, it’s less dangerous, here we are now, entertain us…” his lullaby since the day he was born.  He hums along, drifting into a restless sleep.  He calls out several times, muttering and crying in his sleep

Sometime in the night, his fever breaks.  I lower him to my bed and resume my position in the rocker.  Always vigilant… keeping watch.  When dawn breaks, I sleep in my own restless dreams.



  1. Poor little guy. Hope he’s feeling better.

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