Warning: this will be sappy. Mostly not trite, but maybe a little.

What is it about a sick baby that I love?

Wait, that didn't come out right. I don't love it that Leaf is sick, not at all. Especially not when he's sad, poor thing, nor when he's whining without ceasing because he's so sad, nor when he's hot and feverish as a cinnamon bun fresh from the oven, nor when he's having poop explosions at 4:47 AM. Yes, you wonder, Rae, what is it that you love about a sick baby? (Also, are cinnamon buns feverish?)

Weeeeelllll... I think that as far as a sick baby is concerned, it is that cuddle thing, the part where you are the only person who can really comfort him, because you are the mama, and your little independant baby who pushes away from you when you want to give him a hug spends the entire day leaning his too warm head against your chest. And pushing up to look at you and give a pathetic snotty smile, and then lean on your chest again. And you feel his smallness, his little bones through his soft warm skin, his little knit together rib cage, and how his head is much harder than it was when he was born, but still a baby head, still too big for the little frame he's in. And you are so glad for him, so glad to be his mama, so glad for a day to sit and cuddle, even when you have so many other things to do, even when you are sick and you wish you could be the baby, too.

***

Also, today is my dad's birthday, and I wanted to share a memory with you of something that I love about my dad. So here it is.

I remember when I was about fourteen and I had just recently started rifling through thrift store clothes for too-big pants and long underwear shirts with too-big plaid shirts to wear over top of them, not to mention the polyester bell bottoms and floral polyester shirts that became staples in my wardrobe for a few years. I remember that my dad embraced this me, the blossoming anti-fashion girl that I was, and stopped on his way home to look through thrift stores that had 25 cent racks. He'd fill a couple of bags up with 25 cent clothing and bring them home for us to look through.  Anything we didn't like, well- it was only a quarter.  And so, my dad fully supported my hippie/grunge look through highschool, often coming home with bags for me to rifle through, shopping bags filled with goodies like men's dress shirts and wool socks and the occassional polyester print dress. My parents were fully supportive of my being a highschool artist/misfit, and never asked me to be anything else. They were fine with this from my brother and sister, also, and I think they're mostly fine with my brother's hand tattoos. Although the knuckles might be pushing it a little.

It's wonderful. What a blessed girl I was, living with a thrift king.

Thanks, guys. Happy Birthday, Dad.