The only thing I hate worse than being sick, which is about the thing that I hate most in this world, is having Mason be sick. Sadly, he is eight months old (tomorrow) and deals with being sick a hell of a lot better than his father.
I wake up sick and don't leave the couch all day except of bathroom breaks and bedtime. I let my wife treat me like an eight month old and coddle me all day. I do nothing but watch videos and listen to the radio. Reading makes my body hurt.
Mason, on the other hand, begins coughing and then spills the contents of his stomach. He cries for a moment, most likely wondering, "What. Was. That?". Once he realizes he is okay, his body has not exploded, he goes back to being an eight month old boy rolling on the floor. Sometimes he has to lay on his mother's chest for a few minutes until he is back to normal. Well, somewhat normal, anyway.
This weekend, all three of us have been sick. First we thought we fed him bad apple puree, then Audrey got it. Then we knew we weren't horrible parents for feeding our son bad organic apples from the cheap store. Then I woke up sick, but never got the stomach problems. Now Audrey and I have passed through to the other side and we have left Mason back there. But we are patient and we will wait for him, holding him to our chest when he needs it and letting him roll when he wants to.
