I can only hope.
Time for healthier days. My boys were struck down this week with nasty fevers. It's as if the polar vortex just froze up their immunities and left them vulnerable. Fourteen kids absent from my fourth graders classroom, last I heard anyway. I wonder how his teacher likes having only eight in her room.
Nothing to do but wait it out, under piles of blankets or with a life long friend at your side.
I always think of these as the worst days of parenting. That feeling of helplessness. The worry. The wait. That frantic feeling that I can never do enough.
We play tag-team, Papa and I. He goes late to work, holds tight to the boys as long as he can until I can race home from the preschool to take my turn, leaving my teaching partner to end the day solo.
I remember, as a child, four or five years old. In my feverish state I heard my mother whisper to my father outside my bedroom door that I was "on fire". Such panic. I was sure my bed was engulfed in flames, yet the fever wouldn't allow me to open my eyes or even move a muscle. I have never forgotten that fear. So I'm careful when I talk about how hot their little bodies are, yet "on fire" seems appropriate to how much heat they are radiating.
While the worst of it seems to be over, they still have healing to do. The best thing I can do is crawl into bed with them, sing to them, let them know I am there. I busy my hands with a project and keep a watchful eye.