When your child is sick, you take for granted that with a little rest, TLC, and maybe some Tylenol, they’ll be back to their old selves again in no time.
Even when they’re really sick, and they have to sleep in bed with you and you are changing sheets and holding hair back at three in the morning for the third hour in a row, you take for granted that you are the one who is capable of making them better. Especially after three kids. You got this.
But after three days of honest-to-goodness sickness, you and your husband look at each other and acknowledge, we can’t fix this. So you grab a bucket and her Blankie and head to the hospital where, you take for granted, they can fix everything.
And they do. One IV, two bags of saline, some medicine and several hours later, you have her back home again, where she is tired and snuggly but healing. When you put her to bed that night, in her own bed (granted, with a puke bucket beside her), you get a good night’s sleep, too, because of all the wonderful advances in our world that can heal the sick and return your little girl back to her old self again.
And when she wakes up in the morning and declares, “I’m hungry!” you are thankful and grateful and happy to give her anything in the world at your fingertips, which is a lot. And you vow never to take anything, not matter how small, for granted again.