Kiddo has a fever. After her bedtime, she’s unreasonable about taking her medicine, and her discomfort deepens her aggravation. It’s hard enough to reason with her when she expresses herself wound up in broken sobs. Last night she kept waking us up with her coughing, crawling into bed with us. At 5:30 AM, as I got ready for work, she was as cheerful as Sunday morning comics, except this is Monday. I begin to doubt that I know what’s best for her, until after her mother gets her to comply. All of a sudden she’s cheerful, speaking in a normal voice, telling me she took the medicine, and “what are you doing up this late?” I’m tired, buried up to my neck in rich brown loam. Turn it over with the shovel and the worms crawl into their holes.
31 March, 16 April 1986