Today, the small went off to his first fay of preschool – and tonight, in honor of that I read this at open mic, in some nostalgic nod to a time when I could hold him close and nearly sing everything away. – First posted here way back when he was not even six months old.
Totally knackered. Not in a good way. Not in a way I learned in Ireland, when I would hand a bar-keep a pile of coins, and he would reward me with a frothy Guinness, or a tangy cider. I’m mom knackered. Last night. The temperature in the small one hit a number I hadn’t seen before, nurse on the other line suggested a midnight ride. Women in scrubs lingered and said things to each other like ‘he’s tachy,’ while I held my son, who would not sleep, who sounded more teradactyl than human, and willed his fever away. Before dawn they deemed him fit enough to go, and I drove back through the night. At home I handed the small one to his father, who tucked him in under his arm, while I took off the layers I’d been wearing for 20 hours or more. Wandered the house, turning off the lights I had left on while I packed a desperate diaper bag. Stopped to pull the covers up over the energetic one who moves even in his sleep. Climbed in under the warmth, and watched the small one inhale the familiarity of home, rested my hand on his chest, and drifted off to the sound of baby breath.