I was going to write about vacation tonight. About how much I love my friends, and how wonderful it was so see them last week, and how much fun I had even though I was sleep deprived and trying to figure out how to help a baby who decided to go to bed on West coast time but get up on East coast time. When MY body thought it was 3:00 AM.
That's what I'd planned to do (possibly while sipping a Sapphire tonic because, yes, I know I've been sick and alcohol is an immune suppressant, but fuck, this week, man...) and then Ivy needed me to soothe her to sleep.
For two hours.
I might be sick, but the baby is really, really sick.
It's heartbreaking, listening to her hack and cough and cry her hoarse-from-crying cry. The only thing I can do is hold her. I can rock her in the essential-oil-infused mist of her humidifier, pat her back, think healing thoughts for her. Wait with her for the medicine to kick in.
Even more heartbreaking is the knowledge that there are parents who do this—or some version of it—all the time, every day. Because their sick babies are sick in ways I can't even imagine.
I think healing thoughts for them, too.