Crikey

Son#3 is sick and spent the better part of Sunday on the couch, feverish, shallow coughs every few seconds.

We took him to the doctor when he sported a 42,5 degree fever.  
Pneumonia again.

Today he's at home, and the husband and I are taking turns to stay with him at home.
First lessons, lessons, lessons to teach.

Tomorrow, Son#2 is turning 6.
We're grateful for many reasons, but mostly because we love him to bits.  
Even his loud voice, stomping-feet-on-wooden-floorboards and even his fighting spirit he seems to wake up with every morning.
Son#2 is not a morning person.

We wake to arguments discussing whether 5 X 5 is 25, or what day of the week it really is.
Son#2 wouldn't know - they don't do multiplication yet at school, but he'll be damned if he'll let Son#1 get away with any mathematical precision.

Tonight, dinner, then making treats for Son#2's class tomorrow, and decorating the dining room for a helluva birthday breakfast bash.
He's getting cheap-o Playmobil Police officers with riot gear and a new bike.

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