Will rolled out of bed this morning a good half hour later than his brothers. After taking his breakfast order, I slowly set about preparing it, my lingering migraine turning each step into a seemingly insurmountable task.
“Are you still sick, Mommy?” Will asks.
“Yes, baby. Mommy’s head still hurts really bad.”
His little brow wrinkles, “I’m really sorry you don’t feel good, mommy.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise, sending shockwaves of pain throughout my head. But honestly, Will simply does NOT express concern for others. I’m not saying he’s callous…well…maybe just a little. He’s caring enough to walk around you if he saw you lying unconscious on the floor, but not caring enough to be overly concerned about it. Unless, of course, you’d fallen on his Bakugan, at which point he might call 911.
I pulled myself together enough to say, “Why thank you, baby. That makes mommy feel so much better.”
Sam ambles in to observe the proceedings. “You gonna throw up, mommy?”
Leave it to children to drive home that you look like something the cat dragged in, but the dog wouldn’t eat.
“Say, ‘Sorry you’re sick, Mommy’,” Will orders in his most authoritative voice. “Dat’s what I said.” Sam dutifully complies.
Judging by this unexpected outpouring of sympathy, I decide I must be dying. I confided as much to my mother-in-law who has come to rescue me as I am incapable of driving today.
“…and he honestly seemed to be sincerely sorry I was sick. Can you believe it?”
“Well, now that you mention it…he hugged me this morning and told me he loved me,” she adds thoughtfully.
“Maybe you’re dying, too?” I suggest.
We both laughingly agree it’s the most likely scenario.
Or maybe Will has decided his tough guy persona is just too hard to maintain.
