R-E-S-P-I-T-E

Last night I arrived home after respite from the taxing job I'm always talking about. Molly provided me with stimulating conversation, a tragic movie of a South African fella who mourned the loss of his own childhood, so he abducted an infant after shooting his mother, and Scrubs. Hell yeah.

R E S P I T E find out what it means to me.

Upon my return, my kitchen struck me upside my head with its odd odor. Parmesan cheese? Jon emerged from the hall. I questioned him.

Gil just told me he puked in his bed.

Say what? When?

Just a minute ago.

The responsibilities of our parenting led us to the room originating the foul smell. Egan was wimpering in his sleep, no doubt from the noxious fumes he fell innocently victim to.

The scrubbing, wiping, and changing of sheets and comfortors commenced while Gil continued to sleep, seemingly unfazed, in our bed. Trusty puke bowl by his side.

As executive operations officer, I declared this a sick day. Sick days here allow for vegging all day in one's PJs with the choice of TV or movie to help the time pass while recuperating. Not to mention Mom doting on your every need. All. Day. Long. No questions asked. An activity I know Gil is psyched to have to do today.

He requested toast for breakfast and Ramen for lunch. Hardly touching either.

[now it's early afternoon]

Gil, what's all around your mouth?

Dad gave me a fudgecicle.

He puked gallons of vomit yesterday and you give him a fudgecicle?

They make you better.

Do they help you too?

[I politely provide the universal You Have Something In The Corners Of Your Mouth sign]

R E S P I T E. What the hell would I do without you?