It's a quarter after four on Sunday evening. Ava is sleeping soundly beside me, her tiny body cast in a sideways sprawl in the middle of our queen-size bed. Her feet are still in her fancy socks from church, and they're tucked beneath my elbow in a position that reassures her of Mommy's presence. I remain still, yielding to my assumed function as emotional blankie/human radiator. She turn her head and gives a cooing sigh, then accepts a pacifier and assumes a new pose.
Ava awoke this morning with her first full-blown cold. At least I hope it's nothing more than a cold.
Even though I know that runny noses and snot rockets are par for the parenting course, I still can't help myself from pulling my mea culpa sign out of the closet and wearing it around my neck for awhile. Why did I think it would be grand for all of us -- baby included -- to be out in the biting November wind on Saturday? The short-lived pleasures of fall foliage and sunshine proved too tempting, and I pushed the stroller (AND Daddy) in and out of half the storefronts on Bathhouse Row until we were all sufficiently worn out and craving the comfort of beds that awaited us an hour away.
I pray with all my humbled heart that these sneezes lead to nothing more than a few yellowed shirt sleeves. We're in unfamiliar territory, and given her predisposition to respiratory issues, I'm as nervous as a beetle in a can of coffee beans.
No comments:
Post a Comment