Please be well, sweetheart

I wake up with a start as my arm brushes against an odd warm sensation.
As my fingers stumble in the dark for the thermometer, I realise this is not a dream. And that it's not just warm, it is a scalding 39 degrees celsius.
My baby is burning up a fever beside me in bed.

In plain terms, it sucks when Bielet is sick.
The feeling of helplessness, as she voices her discomfort by bawling her little heart out, tears me to shreds.
The sound of my heart breaking into pieces, as I force the syringe of awful medicine down her throat, is deafening.
The ice-cold touch of the sponge on her skin, as she winces and tries to slink away from my death grip, mirrors my steel facade towards her groans.
The irony of revelling in her tight hugs, reserved only for mama on occasions when she has fallen ill, make me want to kick myself for enjoying such a sadistic embrace.

I know it's inevitable that children fall sick. It's part and parcel of growing up, but it doesn't make me feel any better about my baby being sick. And writing this doesn't make her alright again but at least I've whined my 2cents worth.

My becoming a mom has upped my theatrical flair slightly (which might be an understatement), but
Please be well, sweetheart.