Just as I sat here a few minutes ago trying to get our bills to fit our budget, Izzy stumbled in, little cup in one hand, eyes getting rubbed by the other, hair standing up in towards the back of his head, size 2T Harley-Davidson pj's stretched out to form a half shirt and clam-diggers on his size 4T body, saying in his sleep-blurred voice, "Wa, wa." He drops the last syllable in a lot of his words, and it's much worse when he's sleepy.
My heart swelling, I took his hand and led him to the bathroom. While he peed, I fixed his water. I help him off the potty and hand him his water, intending to pull up his undies and pj's for him. No, he tells me, pulling them up on his own, then taking the water and nearly emptying the cup. He then heads back to his room, me following with his little cup, which I sat on his dresser while he climbs back into bed.
He curled up tightly on his side as I pulled the sheet and blanket up to his neck. "Night, baby," I tell him, brushing his hair off his damp forehead, "I love you." In a trailing-off whisper he replies, "I love you...."
This wild child, this very spirited challenger of all my calmness, and, indeed, my very sanity, this sweet child delights my soul.
Today he watched his sister have a painful RSV test, one in which the nurse snaked a tube up each side of Sophie's nose to suck out saline that she'd just squirted up her nostrils. It broke my heart to see my littlest baby in such pain. Tears poured from her eyes, her cheeks were taut with her scream, and her lips were turning blue from the intensity of her cries. The nurse finished, and as I cuddled Sophie into my chest, Izzy looked at the nurse and said, "You hurt my baby." My eyes became a little shinier as she told him that she knew she had, but she hadn't meant to. So accusingly he repeated, emphasizing each word with pain and anger, "Hurt my baby."
Izzy: Chief protector. Chief cowboy and puppy, too. He is just an awesome little guy, this energetic sweet baby of mine.
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