Bean was sick this past week. A high fever to go along with the throat infection she had made for some unpleasant days and middle-of-the-nights. Before she finally recovered, her fever spiked, her throat was raw, and the silly girl with the contagious laugh was hidden in a fog of damp washcloths and ibuprofen.
But this isn’t a post about the baby girl with the flushed cheeks and burning throat.
This is about her brother.
This is about the young man who was quarantined right along with her, sacrificing a week of summer fun – almost complaint-free – because his baby sister was feeling crummy.
The protective older brother who would touch her forehead every hour or so and report to me that she was still “burnin’ up!”
The thoughtful boy who would run to refill her water and make sure she was getting plenty of fluids.
The boy who generously, and with great concern, shared his brand new birthday toys, his Avengers balloons, and his favorite spot on the couch flush against my lap just so his sister would feel a moment’s relief.
The girl’s brother – my son – whose already-evident love for little Bean grew new arms and legs and powder-soft touches and the scent of caramel kisses. A warm, active sort of love that wrapped itself around her heart and mine.
Bug, you are astounding, truly.