S was up most of the night with whatever horrible cold he caught from me.
Trying to steam him was like wrestling a baby tiger. How did he get so strong? It was kind of reassuring, though. No one at death's door could muster up that kind of wild, enraged, flipping determination to absolutely NOT do whatever I was proposing.
If it wasn't for J I would have been at a total loss by 4. How do you explain to a two-year-old that the feeling that someone has just ripped a piece of duct tape off the entire surface of their lungs every time they cough is not going to kill them or last forever? And that the only way to make it feel better is to sit in a stuffy bathroom then go outside on the porch in our jammies, or sit with a towel over their head and a bowl of steaming menthol-y tea? Everything (except the antimonium tart. which might as well have been candy) was just tourture on top of torture. I was really starting to freak out for a while, and it wasn't until we were propped up on pillows under my down blankets with the lights back off and our bellies full of tea that little man lost the look of confused outrage, cuddled up next to me and said "this a good plan, mama."
Shoes? One might well wonder at the title of this post. I am not, despite the plegm vigil, delerious from sleep deprivation. Nor am I snapping at my students, binging on Kate's delicious pumpkin bread, viciously attacking any sign of dirt or disorder, reevaluating to no good effect my worth as a human being or engaging in any other tried-and-true over-tired-mama-type activities.
I am, however, gazing down occasionally to see; peeking out from under the hem of my six year old skirt; the toes of some truly beautiful, red-brown danskos -
and smiling that smile found only on the un-made-up face of a chronically underdressed possessor of some
fabulous
new
(red)
shoes.
