Poor little Maeve caught a bug this weekend. The little knucklehead is tossing in her bed right now, trying in vain to find that one perfect position for both her and her stuffed bear.
She’s had a busy week, so Lisa and I are chalking this up to over-exertion. I mean, they’re really riding her at work, and her classes are just murder. Much of her day is spent rehearsing a recently discovered elephant impression. (She raises one arm and squeals through pursed, smiling lips – it’s precious and she knows it makes her old man laugh. It’s gotten to the point where she’ll sound her elephant’s trumpet as soon as I walk into the room, just because I’m, apparently, that deserving a father.)
For now, her fever is broken and she’s keeping pedialyte down, so we’re not really worried. It just sucks though. I could jump in front of a bullet, or push her from the path of a runaway train. I could stare down a pack of mad dogs if needed, or hold her head above flood waters. But no matter how many times I pace past her bedroom door, I’ll never be allowed to take her sweaty place myself, and let her get some sleep.
I know she’s on the mend, though. I know that cute little kid I still working her magic, beneath mottled skin and teary eyes. I know because I just went in to calm her down one more time, and as I knelt to wipe the hair from her eyes, she reached out and grinned at me.
And from behind that pained and tired little face... she squealed through pursed, smiling lips.
Keep in mind, I was expecting her to look up and continue to cry. Or look up and vomit. Or look up and continue to cry and vomit while her head spun around. But instead the little knucklehead looked up and gave me an elephant impression.
Yep, she’s on the mend.
2 years ago