I watched my husband care for our sick little boy last night. He rubbed his feverish little head. He gently bathed him after a violent puke of blueberry muffins, curdled milk and Children’s Tylenol. He poured cool water over his feverish, goosebumped body with the little fishy cup. He listened to his sick, senseless moaning. He gathered up the soiled clothes, put them in a trash bag and hauled them downstairs to be washed. All was done with such patience and love. There was no complaining about the situation, or concern that the night’s events were keeping us from our beloved Sunday night HBO (OK, we do have Tivo, but still).
We’ve been with each other for almost 15 years. Never is he more beautiful than when he is knee-deep in fatherhood, caring for our son. I believe that when we’re 80, these will be the moments I remember.