Saturday Night

Its past midnight. I sit on the floor in my kid's room reading "The Historian" by the glow of the bathroom light. The novel is a Da Vinci Code like search for Dracula. My youngest is sick. His stomach hurts, he has already thrown-up once. My time is divided between comforting him and trying to allow him to sleep. There is nothing more I can do for him. I have already plied him with the proper medications.

"When will it stop hurting?" He moans.

"I don't know honey."

"I think I have to throw-up again." He scrambles out of bed and kneels before the toilet. He begins a series of retching that turns my stomach and squeezes my heart. When he finishes, I hand him a glass of water, so he can rinse his mouth. I regard him closely, his smooth face is pale, his lips bright red, like the vampires of my book I absently think.

"Does your stomach feel better?"

His blue eyes peer at me from beneath his long brown bangs, they are large eyes with thick lashes, they stand out against the whiteness of his skin. He swallows hard and shakes his head no. At six years old he is straddling the gap between being the baby of the family and a young boy. He doesn't whine, instead he handles the stomach ache with a calm maturity beyond his age.

I call him to me and hold him in my lap. We wait out the pain together. After a while I lay him in his bed and retreat to my own room. I finish the last few pages of my book. The story is long, the authors prose moves along slowly with just enough intrigue to keep me reading. In the morning, I find my youngest next to me. His stomach ache is gone. I feel his forehead. He has a slight fever but he is in cheerful spirits. I get him some Moltrin, argue briefly with him to take it, then we sleep some more, me aware that these times will soon be gone.