Last night, the duration and quality of my sleep was in direct correlation to the amount of room in which my toes could freely wriggle before jamming up against hard, wooden slats.
As in: very little.
Because Brad is sick. And when Brad is sick, the whole world has a tendency to slowly implode in on itself, folding in like a cake removed too early from the oven. All hot and sticky, and runny, and, well, just plain gross (sorry, honey).
We thought it was food poisoning, and then we figured it was probably a virus, but when he stopped puking in hour four, we went back to our original diagnosis after speaking to a telehealth nurse. It may have been the sausage he ate earlier that day, or the chicken wings (yeah, no surprise here) he ate later on in the afternoon. In a way, it's sort of like the ghosts of the dead animals he ingested were coming back to haunt him because his small "v" vegetarianism has so badly lapsed since we've been home. Or that's what the scientists are saying, anyway.
But if it was food poisoning, then wouldn't other people be sick, too? And they weren't, so this further confused the matter.
However, despite the mystery of the illness, and while Brad heroically submitted to death throes, I fetched water and kept him company until about four in the morning. As we'd already decided it would be best if I didn't sleep in our bedroom without wearing a hazmat suit, I'd already set up a hasty bed on the floor in Innis's room, and this I did for two reasons: first, just in case Innis also got sick, I wanted to be on hand quickly and coherently, and secondly, I didn't really want to contract and then suffer through whatever it was that Brad was dying from. Because, like, that would suck.
(By the way, have I shown you this before? I mostly mean the part at the end -- mutated virus, indeed)
So when Brad sort of stabilized, I snuck away into the baby den of sweet smells and health and prepared to stretch out on the slab of concrete floor passing for carpet around here (I mean, I get it, nubbly carpet looks nice, but, c'mon. It makes for a terrible mattress). However, as I entered the room, guess who I found wide awake, chirping and cooing and generally being delicious and squishable?
So, instead of hanging over the edge of the crib to rub his back and sing him back to sleep (it doesn't matter what part of your body takes the pressure on the crib rail -- stomach, ribcage, cheekbone -- you cannot do this for long periods of time, especially at four in the morning), I decided I'd crawl into Innis's crib with him, just for a minute, just until he fell asleep.
But then he fell asleep, and I decided I would cuddle him just a little more before climbing out to hunker down on the space I'd laughingly considered potentially comfortable (given the viral threat in the other room) only moments before.
And after a few minutes, I decided it was awfully snuggly in that crib, so I pulled in my own duvet and made a perfect little feather nest for us both. Because, you know, I didn't want to wake him up by crawling out now that he was sleeping so peacefully.
And then --
Well, then it was morning, and my back muscles were spasming from the question mark I'd contorted myself into for three hours, and I'd lost the feeling in my toes because at some point I'd jammed my feet through the crib slats and there they'd stuck, blocking off whatever important veins that were supposed to be carrying blood and oxygen to my piggly wigglies.
But, like magic, all thoughts of physical discomfort flitted away because just then, the pink-cheeked cherub sleeping next to me woke up with a sleepy smile.
And I'm realizing more and more that these are the moments I'm going to have to hold only as memories soon. I can't be snuggling in with Innis for much longer, or vice versa, which actually makes me pretty sad. Today we went for a public swim at the pool, and for twenty minutes he wrapped his arms and legs around me and tucked his head under my chin while we bobbed and dipped and swirled. At one point, I thought he'd fallen asleep, but no, he was just enjoying being held, and safe, and warm.
Thus, two conclusions: I am a serious Sucky McSucky Suck (excuse me while I gush all over you), and two: I would really like to have another baby so I can have all these moments over again one more time.
P.S. Brad is better today, though he probably won't be 100% until tomorrow. So far, Innis and I are symptom free, but I'll knock on wood for that -- but not on the wood of Innis's crib, because Sucky McSucky Suck or not, tonight I need a real sleep in a real bed, even if it means bunking up with the embodiment of the Bubonic Plague formerly known as Brad -- although if it's any consolation, he's the cutest Bubonic Plague sufferer I know. If there was a competition for Most Handsome Black Plague Disease Carrier, Brad would win hands down. If there -- ok, enough. I can't think of any more words. Because I'm exhausted. And because there's a king-sized European top mattress with two (yup, TWO!) feather duvets and a comforter waiting for me a brief staircase away ...
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