This is What Love Looks Like

Love looks like unwashed hair and a face that hasn't seen concealer in days.

It looks like checking the monitor ten times an hour and cringing at every mid-dream whimper, knowing just how awful a stomach bug feels. (And only imagining how bad it is without the vocabulary to tell someone.)

It looks like wincing as your child pats his tummy and says, "Hurts, Mama. Hurts."

It looks like piling three sleep-deprived people into the guest bed, the smallest in the house, because your child's stomach bug has rendered every other bed and sheet under your roof unusable.

It looks like sheer exhaustion.

(It smells like a less-than-delightful combo of Lysol, Febreze, carpet cleaner, Pedialyte, ginger ale and Saltines, but I digress...)

It looks like a grandmother who drops everything and drives up to be a relief pitcher.

It looks like a dusty, ignored to do list but a squeaky clean, sanitary house. The only thing worse than being sick is being sick in a dirty bathroom.

It sounds like a million late evening and weekend calls (never during business hours, huh, Mac?) to the pediatrician.

It hurts like the sound of a sick baby begging for food after being offered, time and again, only "sips" of "clear fluids."

It looks like watching the same two-minute segment of Sesame Street over and over and over again because it coaxes a semi-smile out of a sick toddler.

It looks like letting the whole world see you ugly, tired and unwashed just because you love the sentiment behind the photo so much.

It looks like letting all of your own needs and priorities (and stomach-bug-sidelined Jack Rogers sandals and worse-for-wear couch cushions) fall to the wayside.

It looks like searching the internet for tips on how to clean said sandals and sofa cushions.

It looks like a mom who is endlessly grateful for a slight improvement and an even 50/50 ratio of whining to talking. (Vast improvement!)

Mac is doing much, much better and I am thankful beyond words for the help of his dad and grandparents in scraping through a tough five days.

I've learned lately that, while he looks nothing like me, Mac has my fearsome need for food and unparalleled crankiness when he's forced to go hungry. He might have perfected the art of whining from me, too, but I think some of that comes with the "how to be an awesome toddler" manual.

Now I'm off to catch up on some long-neglected work projects...