Sick little soldiers

Since returning from our Melbourne holiday, the mini men have been sick little soldiers.

Last week, they caught a bug from pre-school which made them feverish, sleepy and sore all over.  My miniest man arrived at my doorstep in his mother’s arms, head drooping.  He stretched his little arms out to come to me and looked up at me and whispered, I want to go to your bed, Daddy.  I lay him down quietly in the darkened room and he curled automatically into foetal position.

My other little man was happy to have dad time alone, so he waved off his mother and we watched Madagascar together, laughing together in all the same places.

During the night, junior woke at 11pm for a drink, then at 2.50am I woke up to see his little silhouette shuffling to my bedside.  I looked into his little face and his eyes were as big as saucers, the moon reflecting in his irises as he told me his head hurt.  I gave him another dose of medicine and he took himself off to the toilet and back to bed.  Not once did he whinge.

The day started at 5.30am to a most cheery little man who claimed he was all better, waving his hands in the air (he gets that from his older brother and dad).

I rolled out of bed and felt sore and a bit off, but casually dismissed it.  That night I cooked dinner for the boys and we sat at the table with the TV on (it’s a boy thing to do).

The next morning I woke up and could barely move.  I had a dull pain in my muscles, every hair on my body hurt when it was brushed against and my chest wheezed at every breath.  I managed to distract the boys for the day while I lay on the couch, eventually driving them home early and took them to the doctor for a final check-up.  I sat in the surgery hunched over and sweaty.

A week later I was distressed to hear that my eldest had picked up a viral infection and was covered in red dots and had a fever.

I dashed across the road from work and picked up some Krisy Kreme donuts to help my little patient feel better.  I was planning to meet my playmate after the trip up to the kids.

I opened the front door of the family home and cloistered inside with the heaters on were my two dear little men sitting with their mother on the couch.  Beau’s (my eldest son’s nickname) swollen and dotty little face broke a smile when I saw him.  His little brother looked over his quickly disintegrating icy pole to nod a hello (he likes to join in the sickness around him… bless).

After a trip to the doctor at 9pm, projectile vomiting on returning to the car and feeding the young man two-minute noodles at 10pm, I called my mate who was slightly put off by the ordeal and missing our catch-up.

I felt like a 1950s housewife, tired, dirty, puked-on shoes and trying to be pleasant and doting on a man.

I was dangling between the two edges of an abyss.  I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t.

So I crawled into bed and dreamed of the cute barista down the road from work.  I slept very well, long and hard.