Oh, dear sweet one.
I know you’re hot. I can feel it radiating off you before I even gather you, sweaty, from your nap. I would take that fever from you and wear it for a week if I could make you feel better for an hour.
I know you’re miserable. I can tell my the way you ball up inside if your feet touch the ground for even a moment. I will keep you with me as long as you need me to, even if I have to ice my biceps later.
I know you hate medicine. I can tell the way you gag when you see the dispenser syringe thingie. I would do anything to make love and milk and good intentions fix this illness, baby, but sometimes we need to bow to the bludgeoning power of Western meds. Because I won’t let big bad germs get you.
I know you want mama. I can tell the way you haven’t left my hip for four days. If I could just zipper you on while you need that, I would. Until then we’ll use slings and arms and wraps. No, of course not backpacks. I know better than that, butterbean.
I know you’ll be too big soon to be a Velcro Baby when you’re sick. Soon I’ll be replaced by movies, then books, then someone else. When you’re sick. When you’re not sick, too.
I hope you won’t ever get sick again. I hope you won’t ever get too sick. I hope you won’t ever completely lose the need for Mama when you’re feeling crummy.
I hope I won’t ever forget the heft and heat and helplessness of Velcro Baby.