Thursday, October 23, 2008

Clone me. Clone me, now.

Sick child.
Needs a great many things.
Needs each one now.

"I'm cold. Could you get my bathrobe?"
"I'm weak. I think I'm going to pass out if I don't eat something."
"I can't move my chair."
"How many of these pills can I take?"

If you want any one of those things, you have to let me finish one before you ask for another.

I get halfway down to hall to fetch a robe when I get yanked back by the horrifying sound of meds being shaken out of a bottle.
No sooner do I get a plate in the microwave than he decides he's too tired to sit and eat it.

When's my sick day?
And who's going to get my robe for me? Huh?



Chaz said...

and how old is this child?

Roses said...

Chaz: He's 11. Old enough to know better.

Perhaps the proper question is: How old am *I*? and which one of us is in charge?