I am thankful and I am thankful and I am thankful for my parents, who captured and held hostage and subsequently entertained my son for a couple days as I slept an upwards of 20 hours in one day, and then nearly 18 the next. But upon T's arrival home, that first morning, still not feeling the best, I slept in. When I awoke at 11 (yes, 11 a.m.!), my child had, in his own cheerful words, "been awake for almost all day, momma."
He had during this time: made a hilarious attempt at making his bed, dressed himself, turned his dirty clothes right side out, put them in the dirty laundry basket, taken the dog outside to pee and poop, fed the dog, done his required daily reading, and was downstairs quietly watching television and playing video games (with the dog curled on the couch beside him), "because I knew you needed all the sleep you could get, momma."
Yes, this is my child. 9.5 years later.
So, like anyone in this situation, I express to my child a mighty thanks with lots of hugs and kisses and comments of pure amazement and I saunter around the house with an extreme heft of guilt at my sleeping through all of these accomplishments.
I hug him again. We discuss the remainder of our day, and I lament that he must be nearly starving. I'll make you anything you want for breakfast, I tell him. His response:
"Oh, I don't care. I just want something that will bring JOY to my tummy, momma!"
Seriously? This is my child.