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.