by Rebecca Miller
The little lover bug is sick.
Labored breathing and barking cough
haven't slowed her down.
She runs like an Olympic medalist, she
takes barbies serious.
We blow bird-shaped water whistles
and gazillion bubbles at midnight.
We advance in therapeutic medicine,
we are super women taking flight.
As a toddler you have little time,
for medicine, nebulizers, hydration.
Reviewing sesame street and
snuggling with Mommy takes priority.
She has given up her fight.
She sleeps as I study her chest movements,
her wheeze makes my heart beats faster.
I carry her, Bear-Bear, and blankets to bed.
When morning wakes her, she cries
While sleep overtook her, she was stuffed to the brim.
Tissues are meaningless when you cannot blow your nose.
"No boogey-sucker!" she screams in terror.
She tries, she ends up spitting-
no snot will come out.
Tired, frustrated, and congested she says:
"Mommy I'm not super anymore."
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