Golden Boy

In mothering my two small boys, I've found that quiet moments are rare. My boys are usually wielding swords or scaling our bookshelves and, even when playing wonderfully with each other, usually a hair's width away from injury or insult. So I tend to keep a close eye on them, and multi-tasking, more often than not, simply means failing at two or more tasks at once: a pot of curry burning while an argument rages about who is Captain Hook; a beloved toy destroyed during tug-of-war while I press send on an email with the wrong person CCd; a toddler rushed out of the house without snacks in bag while making arrangements on the phone for window cleaners for the wrong date... The list is endless. And the house, or my mind, is rarely quiet. So you can understand why, when my older son was sick and sleeping, I had the urge to leave his side and "get things done". I am so glad that something made me just sit and stroke him as he slept.  

Golden boy

My sweet, sweet boy

Is feeling unwell.

A temperature of 40

And ruby red cheeks.

And, unlike me,

Who bristles with irritation

When I am sick,

He has melted

Into the softest version of himself.

“Mama,” he says, “will you stay by my side?”

So, of course I stay.

I give him Calpol

And tuck him in snug

And read a little

Story about a ladybug,

Until he, aching and tired,

Quietly dozes off.

Then I sit,

Just watching him,

Sleep and toss

From side to side,

Thinking I should get up,

Do some work,

Sort out the house…

But just now, he had a little coughing fit,

Then, mid-sleep,

Wearily muttered to himself,

“Oh, what the fuck”,

And I’m so glad I was here

To witness that,

Choking my bubbling laughter

To run my fingers

Through his golden hair.