And as if to remind us that summer will be fast approaching, leaving a very short spring here in Michigan, we're already experiencing a thunderstorm with warm humidity and the chorus of peepers nearly drowning out the distant rumbles.
I'm writing this from my spot by my book nook window. I've got a view west, where all our storms come from and I've been watching the giant clouds of lightning slowly pass to the south of us. Our direct storms aren't forecast for another hour but I've enjoyed the show so far. I have other things I want to be doing, like continuing catching up on a new podcast (Critical Role Vox Machina) or some sewing.
But I've got a sick 2 year old who went to bed not long ago and I'm worried that I'll miss her cries. Even not feeling well she is spunky and kind and very attached to her routine. We crawl into bed together and she gets a kiss from Daddy and then I get a kiss from Daddy. This must happen every time. And then the lights are turned out, the cats shoo'd from the room and she and I snuggle in together.
"Mamilk?" She pats my breast and always asks, even if she forgets the please more often than not. She always asks. And I consent and she makes happy little sounds as she latches. When she's sick, I am always grateful that she still nurses, both for the comfort and the immune boosts it can provide. It's my little trick of comfort I always have tucked away and when she stops nursing a part of me will miss the guaranteed calming it gives my kids.
She's got a grasp on math already because we cannot skip the other breast, by the way. She'll stop on my right and tell me she's "all done" and then take a drink of water. Then she'll pat the other side of my chest.
"Moy?" This time I make sure she uses please. Tonight I'm worried that despite the fluid intake she's getting is good, that it isn't going to stay down and I'll end up cleaning it up later. We've already prepped her bed for that eventuality.
But we keep nursing. I play sudoku on my phone while she squeezes me rhythmically. She's finished in not too long a time and rolls over with a quiet "ni night momma". There's no protest about bed. She's tired and ill and will welcome rest in those times. I want to stay with her all night but she'll get better sleep if I leave. I just really loathe leaving her to potentially get sick and not get to the bucket in time.
But maybe if she falls asleep quickly enough the nausea will remain at bay, so I leave her room, shutting the door as quietly as possible.
And now I'm sitting by the window of a dark house, breathing in the air that smells like rain is on the way, and watching the clouds be illuminated in infrequent flashes of light. It's a peaceful night and there's honestly nowhere else I'd rather be.
