Bittersweet

He woke up this morning, and he could see from my stance that it's another bad day.  I can't move much of anything on the right side of my body.  Tears fill those big brown eyes, and my guilt is overwhelming. 

I sit next to him and ask him if he is ok.  He nods, his hand going back to it's usual spot of late, my back.  I ask him if he's upset that I've been sick so much lately and we've been stuck at home.

"What do you mean by upset?".   "Angry, cranky.  Disappointed that I've ruined your holidays.  It's ok if you are - I would totally understand".

His eyes are wide, as though the thought had not occurred to him.  "No Mummy.  Not cranky at all.  This isn't your fault.  I'm upset, sad upset, because I love you and don't want you to have pain.  I wish you didn't feel so sick.  I'm not worried about my holidays. I'm just really worried about you - I want you to get better".

I leave the room and call his father in tears.  Tears of joy that he is so caring, so sweet.  But mostly tears of sadness that he should have to be.  That he is going to remember a childhood with a sick mother. Remember days like today, when he will have to basically be left to his own devices. Sam is in daycare and it is the only day this week I will be able to take some Mersyndol.  He's too little, not even 8 yet.  He will be perfect.  He will play on the computer, make his books, play Mario Kart.  He will read his Wimpy Kid and eat the food I make him. He will check on me every few minutes. 

There won't be much sleeping (when I say every few minutes, I'm not kidding,lol.  This child has a need to tell me every thought that comes into that beautiful little head).  But still - this isn't what school holidays should be.  He swears he doesn't mind - he craves Sam-free days as much as I do for the peace and quiet.  But still.....the guilt is there. 

I was cooking the other day, last week and it was another 'bad' day.  He was walking around next to me, his hand on my back.  I was harried, trying to do a million things at once, as we mothers are at 6pm (one of Sam's 20 witching hours).  I was finding it so hard not to snap at him as I yet again tripped over him.

Finally, exasperated - "You don't have to rub my back, darling.  I took some medicine, I will go to bed soon".  "Oh, I know.  I know it doesn't fix your back.  I just thought maybe you'd like the sweetness".

What on earth do you say to that?  What can you do but wrap him in your arms and let your teary eyes meet your husbands - also filled with grateful tears.

How on earth did we get so lucky with this child? And how on earth will we ever make it up to him?