January 6, 2013
Enzo is sick with this juicy cough, and it’s wasted as far as he’s concerned because there’s no school to miss. He’s still on Christmas vacation, and it’s a weekend anyway. He does get to watch TV to his heart’s content, and we minister to him, bringing him a steady stream of offerings: buttered biscuits, juice popsicles, homeopathic honey cough syrup, and Tylenol if his fever spikes. We change the channel and hold up tissues to his nose and insist that he blow. When I wipe the dried snot off his face with a warm damp washcloth he says, “Are you trying to kill me? I’m your son!”
He used to get toasted white bread and butter as a special treat when he was sick, but he doesn’t like that anymore. “It makes me go blind.” (He must have gotten butter in his eye somehow, and now he associates that with white toast.)
We also read and read and read to him. I hate children’s books.