Fingertips

This weekend, the Bells have been sick. Both boys had double ear infections in addition to their colds and, even though my man was out of town, he and I had similar symptoms of sore throat and general ickiness. I reluctantly cancelled all my weekend plans - work and play - to take care of the little guys and try to rest myself. It's fortunate that I had already made arrangements for someone to cover me at work on Saturday morning because at about 5:30 am, after getting up to change the basher's diaper (he was crying, "oooowww... oooowww" from his bed, and it turns out he had a very red bum bum), I actually passed out and bashed my face on the toilet. I have a big red, scabby nose to prove it. It's pretty.

Don't worry, it's nothing serious. After visiting an instacare the next morning, it turns out I was probably just dehydrated. Ridiculous.

Anyway, while I was sipping my hot water with lemon and honey the night before the face-bashing incident, I was thinking to myself that I wish my mom were there to take care of me. I'm 31 years old. I have a husband and two children of my own. And I still want my mom?

When I texted my parents that morning that I needed their help, my dad immediately texted back, "We're on our way." He took me to the clinic while my mom stayed with the boys. After I came home, she took the boys to a park so I could take a nap. Later that evening, my mom- and dad-in-law picked up the punk and the basher and took them to the State Fair so I could rest some more.

It is incredibly comforting to know that I can count on BOTH my parents AND my in-laws anytime I really need help. Not only are we geographically close to both sets of parents, they are both supportive and loving and involved in our lives.

After the boys came home and I had bathed them and put the basher to bed, I was tucking in the punk. We read a book and he said a prayer, then as I placed the covers over him, he asked me if I would rub his back. This took me back to my childhood when I shared a room with my brothers. Every night, we asked for a back rub, and my mom would make the rounds. We all got a minute or two of the best kind of comfort there is. Tangible love from our mama, through her fingertips. So at the punk's request, I smiled and tickled his small, smooth back with my fingertips, and found comfort myself in knowing that I was able to show this kind of love to my sweet boy because I had been taught by my own mom what it means to take care of a child.