My youngest daughter - that source of endless chatter, amusement, and sometimes a very unmotherly and unspoken wish that she would just BE QUIET FOR ONE @#$%iING MINUTE! - has been home sick this week. And in a neat little twist of fate, the illness she has is a persistent cough which is made much much worse by talking. I have to say, this has been the most amusing child illness ever, and the inconvenience of being stuck at home with a sick child has been far outweighed by the evil fun I've been getting out of it. Watching her try to shut up has been like watching Lucy Ricardo try to keep up at the candy factory. The little one has been dutifully lying on the sofa, reading books, watching TV, and squirming with increasing frustration as every passing minute of enforced silence ticks by, till finally a torrent of words pours out, followed by a hacking cough. I remind her, with the utter disinterested sweetness of a saint, that she needs to be quiet. And the show begins all over again.
I'm know. I'm bad. But, really, it's these small joys that make motherhood so fulfilling.