It's more than just a little terrifying to have a sick child. Even though my two-year-old isn't sick with cancer or leukemia or the measles that has been running rampant or anything drastic. But the fact that he is miserable is always concerning to a mom.
My son is normally very happy, extremely cheerful, and bright like his sunny, blond hair. His eyes are blue and has fingers small. He loves to give hugs and high fives and knuckles. When he isn't sick, he's running around as if he had a tail that had been caught on fire. He also has a very wild and crazy arm, so when he throws things more often they come flying at your face or behind him.
He is a sweetheart and the definition of a ball of energy.
When he is mildly sick, if his nose didn't run, I wouldn't even know. If it weren't for his cough that was so raspy you could hear the fleum moving in his body as the air rushed through it, I wouldn't know he was unwell. He is two and doesn't know to tell me. He doesn't realize that the red medicine that tastes rancid is there to make him feel better. Instead, he only knows that the little, plastic box full of water that puffs out a silly kind of smoke has a light on it. He calls the green light "red" then pulls his Pooh Bear blanket over his shoulder and falls asleep.
He doesn't know that the reason we can't go outside to play with the neighbor boy his age is because his cough makes me squirm. He doesn't understand that he's contagious at least for a while. Instead, he only knows that he gets to watch movies we've already seen a hundred times and I have to chase him down to wipe his nose.
It's scary, though, when he suddenly slows down. It's frightening when his light eyes, so full of wonder and joy, suddenly are half closed. When he climbs into my arms with his blankie and wants nothing more to be held. I relish those moments, looking back on when he was so little. When he would fall asleep peacefully in my arms wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. When I could see the trace puffs of his dark baby hair turning blond. He would rest in my arms, my baby. My two-year-old baby who wants nothing more than to be safe and held, to feel better and be close to "Mom." I secretly enjoy those moments, because I know that as soon as he is feeling a little bit better, he'll be running away, playing with his cars or screaming to go outside.
Those little moments. Those longing moments. Those scary moments. All in one.
He may not be sick with an incurable disease. My son will be better in the morning. Right now, he isn't even sick enough to want to sit down in my arms and be held. And slowly, I realize that tomorrow, he'll be one day older. One day closer to going off to school. One day closer to finding the girl of his dreams and having kids of his own. One day closer to leaving my house to find one of his own. One day closer to him being taller than me, so then I have to look up to him to get my hugs that he so freely gives now. I will be happy for him and the family he will make. Then when he has a son of his own, I can hold that baby in the cocoon of blankets. That boy can fall asleep in my arms as well as his mothers. I can bask in the joy of another life, another child to love. Another child to hug.
But for now, I have a two-year-old, sleeping quietly next to a vapor box that sends out little puffs of steam. A boy who is crazy and rambunctious. A boy who is so happy to see me when I come home from school. A boy whose eyes light up when I turn the corner or enter a room. A son who will love me forever. A man who will, hopefully, give those hugs so willingly when I have to look up at him.
My son forever.
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