Sick, running a high fever for the second straight day, Younger sprawled on the sofa while I curled into the loveseat, preparing for a long, restless night. I had just given him another dose of medicine and doused the lights when Elder returned from a basketball game.
“I’m gonna be up late tonight,” he announced, oblivious to our exhaustion. “I have to finish an assignment.” Then he peered through the shadows at me. “Oh, I know, you can type the stuff for me.”
Because, even only half awake, I type about fifty-words-a-minute faster than he does. And so I accepted the computer and half-a-dozen handwritten poems dumped in my lap, finishing the chore while he took his shower. He was appropriately grateful when he emerged with shiny face and wet hair.
Then the next morning I opened my laptop to find the poems still on my screen, only Elder had added one additional line when creating his portfolio.
“I dedicate these poems to my loving and supportive parents.”
Awwwwe. My heart melted into a messy, sticky puddle of love.
And then I thought, “But, now, hey, I’m the one that was up until 11:00 typing those poems.”
But I am loving and supportive and he’s sixteen, so I’ll take what I can get when I can get. And what I’ve got is pretty good.