My oldest child is sick, which means high fevers and vomiting. That is how his little body deals with all things viral and bacterial – fever and vomit. So life with him is nothing short of interesting and often sleep-deprived.
Take for instance, his adamance last night that his wings were on the floor. High fevers bring apparently amazing dreams to his feverish little mind and last night he dreamt that someone had cut his dragon wings from his body.
I love thinking about this image: my sick son, searching for his powerful dragon wings which someone had taken from him. I think I need to find ibuprofen with added dragon wings so he can get well. Then he and I will finally get some decent sleep.
So, let me tell you a story. It takes place way back in the annals of my time preceding grey hair and stretch marks, but was a parental preparatory event, nonetheless.
One Thanksgiving season, I was sick. Very, very sick. The kind of sick where digging your kidneys out with a teaspoon would be preferable to continuing to feel them. Well, perhaps I overstate the agony, but you understand. I was a sick kid. I was probably about 16 years old and had come down with some type of crud that left me with a nasty fever and hacking cough. Oh, and did I mention that it was Thanksgiving? The one and only year that I missed out on Thanksgiving. In fact, I slept right through it. But that isn’t the important part. That came on Friday. Thanksgiving break and no school for either myself or my little sister.