desert heat

the wind is blowing in from the desert, and the temperature is rising. And in from the desert blows a million aches and agues, sand-borne pains and fevers, new and insidious every time the winds shift.

this is the third night i've spent in my son's bed, watching his fever wax and wane, helping him to blow his green-snotted nose, quieting the fever dreams and finding his water bottle. He whispers,"I love you mama. Sorry I'm sick," and I pet him and rub his back. I tell him I'm sorry I can't take the sick away. We have conversations at three in the morning, snuggled up in his boat-like bed, face to face, knees to knees, or his hot little feet perched upon my thighs in a sleepy position that echoes how he used to sleep when he was a baby, curled towards my body, feet propped tight on my thighs, nursing in his sleep, content and fat bellied. I used to be able to tell you what his temperature was when he nursed while he was sick, to within a degree or two.

He is a big boy now, over 100 centimetres tall, and still he is my baby boy, my feverish one, sometimes over 100 degrees farenheit, which feels even more alarming because he's usually such a cool-bodied boy. In his sleep he'll roll towards me and grab me tight, his hot hands and burning face all over my poor sleeping mama body, and then he'll roll away, murmuring all the while, some warped dream about snow mixed in with the puzzles we did today, of dog and pig and sheep and zebra. I smooth his short hair away from his brow, change his sweat soaked pajamas when the fever breaks at dawn, and pray that this passes quickly, with Omnicef and juice and love.

 

Such a hard thing, to surrender to this helplessness, even in the small trials of life: to do all that we can and yet have to wait for nature to take its course, for God's mercy, for medicine to work its wonders. There is comfort in love, there is love in comfort, and I sleep with my son to be there when he needs me, to give him the comfort of knowing I am there, each time his feverish body shifts and looks for his mama. I am there. I will always be there.

Some criticize the closeness my son and I have. Some will probably criticize that I stay near when he is sick, or that I snuggle him to sleep at night. But I say, look at him. What better gift to give a child than someone he or she can trust, absolutely? I would hope that every mother and every father does everything in their power to foster such a relationship with their children. I won't wait until I have grandchildren to try to get it right. I don't understand parents who assume they have time to fix it, time to get to know their kids later. There is no later. There is only now. Learn who your child is before it's too late. Know how to be close, let them teach you how to let go.

I received an email from a mums group I've joined here in the UAE, touting what seemed to be a positive parenting seminar, and it made me laugh. When I was having such trouble with my Snickapotamus (because of wheat, caused nasty behaviour problems), I reached out to these women to ask for advice. To a woman, they all recommended I watch the Nanny 911 show on television.

Um.

I don't have a television, and if Time Outs and 1-2-3's worked with my son, I'd be using it.

Now these same ladies are all jumping on the seminar band wagon. Cracks me up. I guess the Nanny just isn't working for them, either.

sweet dreams, mama, he whispers to me. sweet dreams.