Liam loves to act and already has several characters in his repertoire. Most are from Blue's Clues but recently he added one that we cannot trace. The character's name is Chicky Poo and as far as we can tell he's a gay waiter. We'll be playing in his room and all of a sudden, he'll turn to me and in the most saccharine sweet, high pitched voice say, "Oh, you must be Maggie. Would you like some tea? I'm Chicky Poo."
Chicky Poo is somewhat baffling but we greatly prefer him to Liam's latest incarnation, Sicky Poo. Sicky Poo is a whining 2 year old with a hacking cough and runny nose who can't make it through the night without waking up crying for Mama 2 or 3 times. While Chicky Poo is nothing if not polite, Sicky Poo does things like cough in your face or directly onto the remaining half of your pizza. No, Sicky Poo is not my favorite.
While I know it must be tough growing molars and even tougher when you're fighting a cold at the same time, I still find myself, dare I say it, annoyed from time to time. There's just something about dragging myself out of a nice warm bed to get coughed on in the middle of the night that rubs me the wrong way. Call me crazy.
The worst part is how sweet Sicky Poo is about the whole thing. When I hold his aching body tight and say, "Oh, Baby, I'm so sorry," he tries to comfort me. "It's OK, Mama," he says reassuringly. "Sometimes I cry."
How is this the worst part? Because I still find myself getting impatient with the whining and irritated with the coughing in my face. And then I just feel bad.
One morning after a restless night of rocking and crying, Liam woke up early and wanted to start the day. While he might be able to function on less sleep than usual, I cannot. I shuffle around like the walking dead and am lucky if I ever get caffeinated enough to hit my stride. Fortunately he agreed to watch a little TV in my bed so I could wake up at my own pace.
As we sat together, I leafed through a magazine, waiting for my coffee to kick in. I had already read it a few months back but none of the articles were sounding familiar. Then I saw something I couldn't forget:
I know it's hard to see in this photo (I can't get the scanner to work on my laptop) but at the top of each page is a note from my husband.
Your son is super smart...good job.
Your hair looks nice.
Looks like your core is toning.
He says he tells me stuff like this all the time but I only believe things I hear on Oprah or read in magazines (totally not true...well, maybe the part about him telling me nice things all the time). I guess he figured if he wanted me to hear him, he better speak to me in a language I would understand. I have to admit, the impact was much greater in writing. Especially on a day when I really needed to hear it.