Eamon is ailing. This doesn't happen too often, but when it does, it's a whopper. He came home early from work the other day, popped a thermometer in his mouth, and discovered he had a fever of 103. (And yes, he made lots of jokes about being "hot blooded, check it and see.")
When Eamon gets sick, he behaves a bit like the family cat, hiding under the couch until he feels better. It's very frustrating for those of us who tend to feel all nurtur-y. He won't eat, won't be coddled, won't be tempted with delightful palliatives.
But today, he finally humored me by letting me prepare him some lunch. A peanut butter samitch. And milk. In bed.
I prepared said meal, and delivered it to him, setting it gently on his chest as he lay prone. He tried to reach for it with his tongue, and wailed for me to put it in his mouth. Which I did. "I wanted it rare," he grumbled.
I think he's feeling better.
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