Aaaah - chooo

Oh no.
He’s sneezing again. Multiple sneezes, like, 30 or 40 of them this evening.
It’s his body’s way of indicating to me that a rip snortin cold is on the way. By the morning, this preliminary round will be over and I’ll be knee deep in his snot. (Figuratively speaking, of course.) He won’t be able to breathe out of his nose, he’ll mention a raw throat and he’ll advise me of his desire, nay his right to sleep in my bed. Forty eight hours after that, we will all be righteously annoyed with his bothersome cough.
I know this because I’m his mom.
And because we’ve played this game already once this summer. Just two weeks ago…

Am I feeling sorry for him or myself right now?
Tonight, I’ll be selfish and commiserate for myself. Caring for a sick child (even if it is a puny cold) is an all-consuming activity. Unfortunately not the type of activity that tones muscles or melts off fat. I’m anticipating a week of holding tissues under his nose and saying “blow”, making hot tea and noodle soup, murmuring assurances that he’ll feel better by the time school starts, and being tied to the house while he watches hours and hours of The Simpsons (he’s got the second and fourth seasons on DVD). Goodie.

Poor little guy.
Bummer of a summer. Sick for half of it.

What a blessing that I’m not working. I can look after him with love and care for him with tenderness. Resentment won’t be a factor at all, it’s raining. What else have I got to do?