This week, I contracted the nasty stomach flu. Several hours and retchings later, I lay semi-comatose and feverish on my bed, but recovered enough to let the children see I was not dead. The youngest child, our Tiny Man, crawled up beside me, took a damp rag from the bedside, and proceeded to sponge me with it. He said he wanted to clean my eyes, my ears, check my hair, my skin. He wiped gently and murmured the entire time that I was getting better and that I was okay. He sat with me for around ten minutes, giggling and pressing his cool feet against my burning skin. He kissed my forehead, my lips, and my chest, patted me with his little cool hands.
Oh, to be loved by a child. Makes everything better.