Søren has his first cold, which is the saddest, most heart-breaking thing to happen since he went to the hospital and nearly died of a staph infection at 12 days old. His little nose is constantly red, and his breathing is loud and ragged, his eyes are watery and sleepy, and instead of his usual kicking and flailing he prefers to snuggle and hug. I’m not sure what to do to make a sick little baby more comfortable, so I resorted to what would make me comfortable: I promised him he could stay in his pajamas all day and drink diluted apple juice from a bottle (baby equivalent of eating ice cream from the container). I’ve also put him down for more naps so he can get more sleep and I bought a humidifier, which we keep running whenever he is in his bed.
Huzzybee has the cold too, and is bravely suffering by laying in bed and watching Netflix while drinking tea and contributing to a mountain of soggy Kleenex on the floor. I also have this cold, and I am making baby food, attending conference calls from my kitchen table, nursing the baby, making dinner, cleaning the house, nursing the baby, doing laundry, etc. I remember my mother taking care of me when I was seven and my brother who was four. She had the stomach flu as well, and would throw up, and then come and clean up the sick mess that I had made in my bed because I was too weak to get up and go to the bathroom. At seven years old I remember thinking about how unfair life was for her, and formulating a plan to never have a husband or children of my own because I didn’t want to clean their stomach flu mess. And look where I am now.