Her voice carried the panic of a swimmer recognizing the undertow too late. She thrashed against the words, terrified of drowning in them…
You learn to appreciate the small victories in parenting.
Fudge, bedside, 3 a.m.: “Mama, I threw up.”
Me: “In the bed?”
Fudge: “No, near it.”
Me: “Okay, good job.”
When we left the hospital, the middle-aged nurse leaned in close over the wheelchair and stage-whispered, “You think you love him now — just you wait!” I now realize this was elliptical, and she suppressed a grin wheeling our empty chair back through the motion-sensored glass doors, silently adding, “…until you find yourself standing in his room, veins bulging, screaming, ‘NO! Get up NOW! Your room smells of stinking feet and SEDENTARY LIFESTYLE!!!’ “