Sleep deprivation from (not) sleeping with and tending to my sick Ol for the past three nights is starting to wear on me. He didn't go to school yesterday, and I knew as soon as I woke up this morning, his sweaty little head in the crook of my right shoulder, that he'd stay home again today.

Ol is the sweetest, easiest sick kid there is, but I am not as young as I once was and I also have nothing left in the way of post-pregnancy or nursing hormones. Swear to god, those things are tricksters of the best sort. I used to get up and rock and nurse my boys with a smile on my face. It was the loveliest, quietest time although admittedly, I often felt on another planet. (And surely not every feeding session was so welcome or magnificent; mastitis anyone?)

Once, so out of it at my parents' house after waking to feed Ol for the umpteenth time, I remember passing my mother in the hall (she is a night owl of extreme degree). I was weaving a bit, but her odd expression wasn't about that. No, it was because my left breast was hanging out of my nightgown. I guess I'd forgotten to tuck it away.

Whatever. Point is, I'm not there anymore, in any way, and these sleepless nights are exhausting.

Fortunately, Tom made me coffee this morning with a fetching fig design on top. It helped. I took Mr. J to school, took Ol to the doctor and then watched as he took to the table with a box of kleenex and the iPad.

He watched more episodes of Oggy and the Cockroaches than I care to admit (though it is an amusing and largely wordless show), but the child could hardly lift an ice cream sandwich to his lips, so I just let him go. I made jam and tidied up and wrote for class.

Especially because I'm tired, it has been tough to negotiate my dismay and frustration over not having had these past two mornings nor, in all likelihood, tomorrow's. I've canceled at least five appointments in the past two days and spent almost none of the time in class that I'd relished last week or committed to for this one. I have, actually, had an excellent time with Oliver, and I love caring for such a sweet and funny soul, but...

Ah, motherhood. Look, it even makes Nutmeg pooped.