Me: "Who has the best seat in the house, me or daddy?"

Adam: "Well, Daddy's is nice, but yours is best. Your's is squishier."

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Sweet Little Prayers

12 AM: Tessa wanders out of her
room for the 4th time, sick to her tummy, feeling like she may give us
a dramatic re-enactment of dinner-in-reverse. 
Also, she had the sniffles.
"Baby, what are you doing?"

"I need to find a quiet place to say a sweet little prayer so to make me
not be anymore sick, but you keep making all that noise."

(I wish I can hear her words, but from the hall I can only hear her tiny voice
murmuring as she kneels beside her bed negotiating
with the Great Almighty for her health).


12:15 AM: Tessa is on the toilet crying.

"I am just not ready!"

"For what, baby?"

"I think I am just not ready to be very sick."

12:17 AM: She does the dry-heave fake-out, 
her expression, one of shock that her body has betrayed her.

"My heart is like a drum, like someone is beating it hard."

12:30 AM, after a battle over taking some medicine
("But what if it taste-is nasty?"),  she compromises and allows me to give her some homeopathic remedies.  Her legs have fallen asleep
from being on the pot so long.

"Do you feel better?"

"Well, I don't feel great-great, because it feels like
it's getting my foot squished because it's asleep."


At least something is getting some sleep around here.

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