"Arrrggggh! You suck!"

It's 8:40pm and from the couch downstairs I can hear you murmuring in your sleep. Last night Daddy was certain you said "hi" and a few other words in the midst of your nighttime slumber.

The sickness has moved into your lungs and now your cough is loud, wet, often. This afternoon was the first since Sunday that you didn't have a fever. You were energetic enough to balance yourself between the couch and ottoman, to drag the stainless steel pots from the cupboard, to climb the stairs and press your face between the wooden bars of the railing. You said "apple" and then refused to say it again.

Tonight you ate mashed potatoes and bits of chicken and an orange. This was a big step forward; you've mostly been subsisting on juice and apple sauce and blueberries for the last few days.

You still want to be near me, and only me if I'm available. This is both lovely and draining. I love the feel of your arms wrapped around my neck, your head turned to the side and resting on the knob of my shoulder. I try to imagine the future moments when I'll want this back, want you to display this kind of need or affection. I imagine eye rolls and blank stares and "uh-huh"s and "whatever"s, I think of the sound of your door slamming, of some as-of-yet uninvented but horrific tinny-rap-new-age-alt music shaking the marrow of our bones, sometimes I even imagine hearing the already-physically-painful-to-me phrases like "I hate you" and "you suck" and "why did I get such a crappy excuse for a mother, Monique's mother has way bigger boobs, nicer boots, and she lets us drink rum from cups with naked pirates on them as long as we promise not to drive afterward."

You can't talk yet, and this drives me crazy. You seem so willful about not communicating. And yet, so much of what you do communicate is pure, unadulterated love and affection. I should count my blessings. The naked pirates will arrive soon enough.