Jack crawled into my bed last night, waved hello to Meg on her new Macbook with the built-in iSight and snuggled up next to me. Meg and I said goodnight and I noticed Jack was hot. Really hot. Burning up.
He’s pumped full of Tylenol and I called the eight fingered professor upstairs to ask him to keep an ear out for ten minutes while I drove Miles to school as my baby bird slept.
He’s in my bed, Dragon Tales on TV, calling out “Momma, I love you” every five minutes.
And I’ve got Phantom Limb on repeat. In the land of sprayed-on tans. With no connection.
