Eli has a cold. Despite my best efforts, all the disinfecting wipes and keeping him inside, getting shots and all sorts of things, germs have invaded their way into my little darling's body.
It sucks. It is so sad, and it is so scary because I'm crazy with worry, and this is not even a real illness. He's not running a fever, and he still smiles a lot. It's just a cold.
Is there such a thing as postpartum terror?
Last night we could not get him to sleep in his bed - he kept waking himself up coughing and then would cry for one of us. The only way he was comfortable was when he was held, which makes sense. Sometimes when I'm sick the only thing that makes me happy is my mom.
So I rocked him for a couple of hours while I finished reading Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions, a memoir about her son's first year. I came across these lines:
"I look down into his staggeringly lovely little face, and I can hardly breathe sometimes. He is all I have ever wanted, and my heart is so huge with love that I feel like it is about to go off. At the same time I feel that he has completely ruined my life, because I just didn't used to care all that much."
Truth.
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