No runny nose,

no “my throat feels funny, Mommy,”

no looking at me status post vomiting,

wrapped in the fuzzy red blanket and clutching Penguin,

your eyes melancholy

lateral decubitus on the sofa,

auscultate

regurgitate

rusty bedside memories and my pediatric stethoscope,

resurrected from residency.

Except for Tuesdays. Because I said so.

Other days are off limits.

Fridays are when geriatric patients drive across 2 states to see me

Mondays are when I mentor medical students who will be attendings by the time you’re old enough to drive

Thursdays are when my eyes hopscotch over spreadsheets and see bedsheets

with gnomes damp and sweaty

pillowcase sour-smelling

of Cheetos and curdled milk

I can’t rub your back

as you hunch over a glass bowl,

retching the homemade organic yogurt with chia I made you for breakfast

Because I work like a mother,

except when I mother like I don’t work.

Which is really hard work.