I've been sick.
Sick as in spending time hugging porcelain. While G hovered nearby, jockeying for a good view, offering helpful hints such as "You gonna flush dat, Mama?" For the love.
G kept coming to my bedside, insisting "I hungy Mama; I hungy." To which I kept brushing him away "Pretzels; get pretzels." Little guy polished off a whole bag full. Breakfast, snack, and lunch. Poor dude.
This morning I'm feeling better. I made him giant pancakes. He ate FOUR: "I glad you feeling better Mama."
Me too, G. Me too.
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