Friday, September 30, 2016

Fever Day and Stealing Little Treasures

When she's tired or sick, she's still my baby. She sleepwalks when she's feverish but has finally outgrown night terrors. She wandered into our bedroom last night and just said, "Mommy".


I'd called one in three odds to Shane that this would happen when I read the thermometer, but I knew for certain then that she'd wake me. I steered her back to her tiny bed and she snuggled up around her stuffed dragon—warrior girl—and was deep asleep.


I still want to cut out my heart and offer it to her if I could just weather her illness for her, but that little body wrapped around mine for comfort, too warm and snoring softly as an infant, is a treasure. 


It was painful almost, not too long ago, watching her tumble into adolescence. But it's a thing of awe now, watching her become even more her Self. (Our Hermione, protesting missing school even as that fever crept upward last night.)


It's an honor to be a witness as much as a guide.


So these days when I'm needed by the baby in her are ever more precious. I lie beside her radiant heat and catalogue the softest foods we have on hand to offer her achy throat and scroll through movie selections for when she wakes.

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