The boy woke up with a fever this morning. He laid down on the floor in front of the fireplace and stayed there for the rest of the day, baseball cap on and tissue box nearby. He ate a pear and half a sandwich and sometimes fell asleep for a brief time. I spent much of the day chasing off his little brother, who just wanted to play and wrestle with his much-adored big brother. It was an odd change from my usual duty of getting the older one to back off the younger a bit. That poor boy, he was laid right low.
The younger one wanted a sandwich after dinner, just like his big brother. He nibbled at it a bit before abandoning it at the table in favour of Duplo. It was gone when he went back for it later. Did you eat his sandwich?, I called to the husband. He came into the room, sheepish, to admit that he had. The poor child received the news poorly. Fell straight forward onto the floor and sobbed his broken heart out, drowning out offers of a replacement. Devastation comes swiftly when one is only three years old; he was laid low by the injustice of it all.
Unexpected news yesterday left me sleepless last night, reeling from the blow and wondering what it would all mean in the end. I got out of bed early this morning to prepare for company that never arrived. Emotional and physical exhaustion wrestled for top spot and by the time the husband got home, I was spent. I napped on the couch, laid low by discouragement and never enough sleep.
But tomorrow is a new day, always, always. We'll recover from illness and disappointment and discouragement. We'll count blessings along the way because it's the only thing that keeps us standing tall, giving thanks to God (for He is good, His mercy endures forever).