My mom always said she loved us all but she loved us more at different stages. If we asked who her favorite was, she said it was the one who needed her the most. Tonight, my family needs me and I am all a-tear with the joy of it.
Dan is pretty much walking death. He is having body and headaches so bad, he can hardly walk. I have been nursing him with Gatoraid, chick-flicks (he can’t fight back when he’s like this), and readings from S. Morgenstern’s The Princess Bride.
I joke about the death, but seriously, when he got up, asked me to pause The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (no I am not making that up), and moaned his way to the little boy’s room, I had this horrible feeling that he had meningitis or an aneurism or something and while he was about his important business, I was fighting back the tears and planning how I would pack up our stuff to move to my mom’s house with both kids in tow when he kicked the bucket.
When he came back, I told him of my concerns and he promised not to pass away….ever.
Then Magoo woke up in a state of sad sadness and he sat between us, all cold, clammy and pasty like his dad and we watched the rest of the movie. Magoo summoned the strength to dance (bouncing and flailing, really) to the girl-power songs and Dan and I both cried like babies during the touching parts. (Dan says he only cried because he was so sick, but then that’s a theory we’ll never be able to test, now will we? If we watched it again and he remained dry-eyed, I’d say it was because it wasn’t the first time he’d seen it. Maybe some evening when he’s well, I’ll whip out My Girl and see how well he holds up. I cried so hard I was snorting during that movie.)
To give him the benefit of the doubt and to protect his manhood, I will say that I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him cry since we met (and I only have 5 fingers on my right hand, unlike Count Rugen). He must be really sick.
After I got him tucked into bed with his sprite-spiked Gatoraid and Tylenol PMs, I went to Magoo, whose crying had become a frenzy. I held and rocked and cuddled and loved him in the dark quiet of my living room. The fireplace flickered and he climbed up and down my stomach, nuzzling me all over and moaning happy, contented moans. Eventually I broke my big fat stupid rule and nursed the pathetic little guy to sleep.
Now I miss him. I miss my boys. I should go to bed. I’ll be the next victim of the disease, I’m sure. Magoo’s big enough now (over 2 years younger and only 5 lbs lighter than Laylee) that he should be rocking me to sleep when I come down with it.
This sentiment hit home. I read it right after putting him down.