Too Little, Too Late

I have too little to say tonight and it's too late to do anything about it.

Sawyer has been driving me crazy wearing me out worrying me for the last few nights--it all started Monday night (or was it Sunday night?) when he alerted me to the fact that he was about to spontaneously combust if I didn't give him some medicine to bring down the fever that I--silly me--didn't even know he had.

Now Sawyer has had fevers before. Fever? Pshaw, I say. Fever, schmever. But this was different. He looked like a red hot chili pepper, and I don't mean the drummer. I mean he was GLOWING. Think candy-apple red. No, more like fire-engine red. Anyhoo, he was hot.

Ever since, I have spent the wee hours of each night stumbling out of bed and feeling my way upstairs in a feeble attempt to find some way to comfort him. Consequently, I am wiped out. My bed beckons to me at 6:00 p.m., even though my attempts to dive into it and shut out the rest of the world are cruelly thwarted. Okay, I'm just kidding about that last part. I don't really dive for my bed at 6:00 p.m. But that doesn't mean I haven't thought about it.

So now here I sit, with absolutely nothing to say but feeling that powerful urge to write something, ANYTHING. And I am--blank. And . . . ah, there it is. The siren call. The first of what I'm sure will be many forays into my little boy's room, trying vainly to discern the indiscernible, to distinguish pain from fear, to correctly interpret the inner workings of a mind that has been so attentively engaged in the activities of the day but can't always articulate thoughts that occur at 4:00 a.m. . . .

Whew--wish me luck.