Sedryn’s lying on my chest, wheezing hard, in the dark exam room. What started as what I thought was croup, was ending in what I clearly knew was bronchialitis. That evil RSV virus that inflames airways and makes my babies feel like their drowning in their own lungs.

All three of them have faced this battle.  The girls spent many nights curled up in our beds and signing please at the sight of the nebulizer. Sedryn summons the energy to fight the nebulizer for a bit, but then collapses in a lifeless heap back on my chest.

In the morning, he wakes feeling a little better. He drinks his milk and curls in next to me. I ask him if he wants his back rubbed.  He says “Yah,” with the slightest hint of mischief in his voice. I rub that back and each time I think he’s fallen back asleep and stop rubbing, he wiggles his body to tell me to keep it up. Sweet little stinker.

I only have this opportunity once. Only one moment right now where I can lay him next to me and rub. The same moments already passed with his sweet sisters two years ago (and hopefully they will not need visits with Mr. Nebulizer ever again).

This moment is ordinary. Nothing special. Nothing tragic. Just normal day in and day out mothering. But it’s my only opportunity to live this moment fully. To live all there.

Sedryn, he sleeps 6+ hours each day while sick. The girls ask to do their reading homework. They surprise me with what they’ve retained since my last feeble attempt to read with them. One opportunity to hear them read the words “am” and “me” for the first time. One opportunity to see that excitement.

I don’t want to miss these opportunities.