The Best Job in the World

This morning she wakes with a tummy ache.

This after Bookguy and I have been in bed with the flu for two days.

I hold her hair back while her body rejects everything. 

I take her temperature and snuggle her. 

I pour her Sprite and stroke her back, snuggle her watching Annie.

Thirty minutes later I lug three children to the pharmacy to buy more Sprite, crackers, and medicine.  She seems fine.  Until the check out line. 

"I think I'm going to barf again," she sobs. 

I rush her outside to the trash can.  She {literally} screams, "I HATE THIS SICKNESS" in between bouts. 

She's wearing khaki shorts, and I see her little legs trembling.  Her brow is sweaty.   

I scoop her up like a toddler, and she wraps her little arms around me. I put her in the car, and we drive home.

I lay her on the couch, cover her with a blanket.  Tears drip from the corners of her eye. 

Then, she apologizes. 

"I'm sorry I'm sick.  I'm sorry I've ruined our plans for the day." (We were hoping to meet a few friends at the beach.)

"Nonsense, my little lady," I tell her.  "I love being able to take care of you like this.  This is why we have mommies."

She's laying now beside me, peaceful, breathing deeply. 

This is the BEST job in the world.