I don’t mention my son an awful lot on this blog, because this is my daughter’s space. My space to make sense of our life and her condition. And when I do mention the little bugger I tend to give him a bad press. (Yes, I realise, referring to him as a little bugger may be perpetuating this).
He’s nearly four. He’s a stubborn, silly, bundle of energy. He’s very cute, and he knows it.
Today, I suddenly came down with a bit of a bug. I had chills, and they were multiplying, as John Travolta might say. I felt hot one minute, and shivery the next. I had a thumping headache and a sore throat. So I headed to bed to wrap myself in my duvet and feel sorry for myself.
My boy, playing downstairs with my husband, took a while to realise I was gone. When he did, he padded up the stairs looking for me, and climbed up onto the bed.
“Why are you in bed, Mummy?”
“I don’t feel well. I’m really cold, and I’ve come to bed to get warm and feel better.”
He tipped his head on one side. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.
After a few clonks and crashes (presumably toys and books falling on the floor in his bedroom), he clambered up on the bed with me.
“Here you are, Mummy. It’s my red blanket. So you won’t be cold.”
This was a very kind and sweet thing to do, and I felt a surge of pride at his thoughtfulness.
“You can have Teddy, too, Mummy.”
This was almost too much. I seemed to have something in my eye.
Then a mischievous look came over his face and he picked up his beloved teddy bear and placed it close to my face.
“He just pooed on your head.”
Video is Arctic Monkeys - Teddy Picker