It was a rather busy evening last night with the boy coming down with the flu. I was able to manage his fever but I had to stay up part of the night to help put a cold compress on his forehead and to make sure it stayed there. I was thinking of taking a day off but decided that I would’ve spent the better part of the morning giving instructions and working anyway so I went into the city. I did leave at 1pm and headed home, stopped at the post office for the all-important swaps that are due, picked up some food for the boy and headed home. After dropping my tote and non-essentials and changing into my rain boots, I walked in the opposite direction to pick up homework from his school. (The magic of technology — his teachers may not be reachable via phone but they have their smart phones which makes e-mailing the best way to get any message to them.)
I think I am more exhausted with everything I’ve done instead of feeling rested after getting home earlier than normal. The boy’s fine, still coughing, but his fever was gone. We’ve taken a quick shower just to stabilize him even more, and now he’s already bugging me about turning Criminal Minds reruns off so he can watch his shows. (I am not relinquishing the remote control!) And now I’m cooking tempura for dinner.
I’m glad the boy is feeling better. I can live through a week of body aches, a runny nose or an exhausting asthma attack, but I go into full battle mode when he starts showing symptoms of the flu. Motherhood.
Sometimes I see how he’s growing up in simple every day conversations. He had a tinge of hurt in his voice when he once chided me for never ever being upset with his Dad. He says he never sees me scream at his Dad like I raise my voice at him in an angry tone. I’m trying to impress upon him that the fact that I don’t scold Dad doesn’t mean that Dad is more important than him. He has already taken notice that although he gets a dose from Dad and me, he doesn’t see us screaming or raising our voices at each other. I simply told him it’s different — he’s our son. When he has a child of his own, he will know why. (And we haven’t even started talking about rules.)
He still asks to sit on my lap — and although he is a tall 8-year-old, I always indulge him when I can, dreading the day when he’ll stop asking.
Dinner’s done. The boy dutifully set the table when I asked him. One of the greatest rewards of motherhood is seeing him turning out to be a good person. I keep telling him that when his Dad and I are gone, I know he’ll be fine even when he’s on his own if he has a good heart.