Ethan woke up sick this morning. I completely dread the flushed cheeks, the congested "hi mommy" wake-ups, the lowgrade fever, the leaky faucet nose. I cringe and wince with every sneeze in fear I'll hear a little wheeze, a little cough, a little rasp in his breathing. Since we started bringing Ethan for monthly chiropractic adjustments, we've had zero issues with his asthma and breathing troubles. I've gotten a little egotistical with my boasting about this after such a rough struggle for the first year and a half of his little life that I'm a little humbled and fearful how this nasty little cold will interfere with our perfect breathing streak. Fingers crossed it doesn't, and my sweet little boy can fight off this cold with the stubbornness and toughness that he's no stranger to displaying lately.
Each morning after a sick wake-up, we have a tradition of going to Jamba Juice for smoothies. The plaza that holds the Jamba Juice is otherwise filled with boutiques and restaurants that don't open for hours and so it's always just us, a green smoothie, chairs pulled up to the water fountain and a bag of pennies for wish-making.
An hour and a half of strangely mild sunshine and twenty-four ounces of green smoothie later, we headed home to rest. A bubblebath, globs of eucalyptus baby rub, countless readings of every Llama Llama book ever written -- and eventually those little glassy eyes began to close, gently. "Mommy sleep Ethan bed. Night night. Mommy, Ethan." I couldn't say no to his congested little voice, the tangle of his woven blanket and warm little toes, and spent the next thirty minutes fast asleep on the cold wood floor, waking to the clanking of a loud truck driving past that Ethan slept right through.
I'm trying to decide if this is going to end up being a cold to celebrate -- no wheeze, no rasping cough, no struggle to breathe -- or if I'll find myself in bed in a couple of days sneezing and snotting myself into red nosed oblivion.