A sick little man, really his first illness other than the odd fever or runny nose. His little eyes looking up at me questioning just what was happening to his body. His little arms reaching up to be held. His little body sinking into mine as we snuggled on the couch.
Is it wrong that I enjoyed this time? I mean, I was not happy that he was sick, not at all, but I was happy and quite enjoyed the quiet time it allowed us. Time to do nothing, to just sit and be, with each other.
The two of us snuggled together on the couch all day long reading books, talking and sleeping. Well him sleeping, me reading and knitting. I enjoyed this time. I enjoyed him sitting, tucked up under my arm sleeping soundly. I listened, in the quiet of our home, to his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his body with each breath. I checked his hands often, his hands are always super hot when he has a fever, running my fingers over the top of his hand and then holding his little hand gently in mine. I ran my fingers through his hair, stared at his long, beautiful eyelashes, and kissed his cheeks.
There was nothing else in my day, just him. Wishing him well, giving his body the time it needed to heal and soaking up every little bit of our time on the couch.
He is feeling a little better now, he was down and out for just the day, although he is still not eating much, but that will come, and if I look deep into his eyes, there is still a little shadow, not quite the light I am use to. Another day or two and I am sure he will be running around like the crazy little man he keeps telling me he is.