snot therapy (Please indulge me.)

I’ve read through Kimberlee Conway Ireton’s haunting and beautiful post about the death of an eight-year-old son, savored it, perhaps as suitable reading for this day.  Can life get darker than losing a son?  But I’ve wallowed in my own darkness today.  We’ve been feverish — my baby and I — heads pulsing with the pressure of congestion.  We’ve trudged blindly through the fog, trying to sleep but often in vain.  But with Ray and I drugged up on Tylenol and Ibuprofen, respectively, we sit and work on not feeling sorry for ourselves.

I figure blowing my nose might finally help.  With a giant push something gives way, and in the spluttering relief, Ray starts cracking up as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.  So we keep up our dance — blowing and giggling, rejoicing in snot come free.

“Oh, whoops!  I dropped a snot globule on you!” I exclaim, and my baby boy thinks that’s hilarious, too.

We sit, sick and laughing, rocking together in a puddle of fading giggles.  Temporary sickness in our temporary bodies:  life is still really good.

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