The last week has been interrupted by a bout of sickness. John had a really stellar week up until Friday night, the night that began with him throwing up his dinner just as we were tucking him in. After he came home and asked to hang the dog, he spent the rest of the week requesting left and right — not just for Elmo and fruit snacks and street signs, but to go to the potty too.
But then Friday, followed by a miserable weekend, followed by today home from camp… When we go in, the doctor says it’s strep. I am amazed when John says “Go see doctor?” as we arrive, as if that’s something he’s been saying forever. When she steps out with his culture, the one she took with unprecedented ease, he says again, “Doctor? All done?”
He’s taken his antibiotics and is supposed to feel better soon, but still — there’s a fever like a blanket over my little guy. He is silent and lethargic and sad. All he wants to do is carry around Elmo and Zoe (and Cookie Monster and Grover and Count) all at the same time. This is a lot for his small hands and they fall one by one as he pads around the house. Frustrated, he drops to the floor with a sob. I search for a basket with a handle and we pile them in. He carries it held out in front of him like a proud parent.
It’s late afternoon and Sam is home now. I am in the kitchen when I glance to the other room and see that John has removed his shirt — an unusual sight unless Sam is involved. I yell “Sam? Please leave your brother alone! He’s not feeling well,” and return to the dishes. Ten minutes later John runs in stark naked. “Swim?” he says. “Let’s go swim? Go see Daddy and swim?”
I yell “Sorry, Sam!” and turn back to John. I tell him he’s sick, we can’t go to the pool today but oh, how proud I am of his words — and hey, can we please put some clothes back on his sick little body? He says, “Big S, little S, what begins with S?” We have been reading Dr. Seuss’ ABC book. I hug him, waiting for: Sammy’s sipping soda pop…and instead hear, “S is for swim. Go swim?”
I think he may be on the mend.