My 6:30am wakeup call this morning consisted of collecting each of the girls from her bed and thinking, "Wow, you feel hot." I wasn't surprised, since I've been trying to sleep off some kind of sinus malady for the past week or so, and the last few days had seen the uptick in clinging and whining (from the children, that is) which so often signal that some kind of illness is afoot. It was reminiscent of this time, only double time, so Matt and I spent the day trading our hot, limp little armfuls so that people could nurse and eat and go to the bathroom as needed.
Without a doubt, it was one of the finest days I can remember. Both of our girls spent most of their time napping on one or the other of our bodies, the napping itself being almost as remarkable as the extended snuggle time since Eden hasn't napped in many months and Eve seems to have received the same inexplicable transmission that Eden did around the age of a year, whereby she has decided that 30-45 minutes, once a day, is all we get for her nap (or I guess I should say all she gets--but let's face it, delightful as she is, it feels more like the former). Ensconced in feverish bodies, we shared a lazy day all in bed together, just passing time. It's probably the most concentrated time we've all four spent in such close proximity since around a year ago when Eve was born. It's the kind of day I'm sure I'll look back on when I'm old.
That being said, every time the girls get sick and we treasure the extra cuddle time with them, my heart breaks for mothers all over the world for whom the appearance of a fever or diarrhea signals not extra time with their baby or child, but the beginning of the end. I can't ever imagine the frantic desperation of hopelessly watching that listless little life go out.