From my toddler.
In the far corner, beside my enormous desk. Oh, I love you, desky-hiding-place. I could almost climb inside you and type this.
Hush! It's not that mean! Don't pretend you have never hidden from your kids!
He's not feverish anymore. But he is not well either.
He is however, well enough to cause trouble, in the small moments that he has chosen to get off my lap.
Like throwing toys, repeatedly, at Cole while he does homework. And pouring juice out, all down the hallway.
Oh, and he's well enough to order me around like a small Castro, in between whining bouts.
"Mommmmeeeeee! SIT!" "Mommmeeeeee! Duice! 'Ont DUICE!"
"Mommmmeeeeee! Meet-ah! MEET-AH! 'Ont SHOW!" ("Meet-ah" = Mickey)
Oh Mickey. Your cuteness has waned. Oh recliner, your comfiness is gone.
Oh Phoenix. Get well, bud-bud.
Even a mischievous toddler is better than an under-the-weather one.