If it makes any sense, I feel like a much better mother when my kids are sick. Maybe it’s the unforeseen nurse in me, sympathetic to their pitiful tiny faces. Or it could be because they’re subdued, unwilling to scale kitchen countertops or empty all the clothes from their drawers. My patience level, usually hovering near nonexistent, is given the chance to replenish.
Which is maybe why I sat with my cold-ridden daughter at lunch and let her slowly feed me noodle after noodle from our shared bowl of leftover chicken pasta alfredo. And I didn’t complain once.
Each painstakingly acquired slippery noodle after another.
“Abby do it”, my daughter demanded, grabbing the fork immediately upon sitting from my hand before placing the bowl in her lap.
“Can I help?”, I asked hopefully.
“No, Abby do it”, she reiterated, a common phrase these days.
And so we sat side by side on the couch and I let the petite hands of my daughter maneuver each and every solitary noodle onto a fork with the utmost concentration. It took three times as long to finish our serving, but when it was over with, she was so very proud of herself. Sniffly and coughing, but also happy. Turns out, it was one of the best lunches I’ve had in awhile.
If that’s all it takes to feel better, I think it’s the least I can do.