My little caretaker

Bad bad mean stomach cramps this morning and I think this might be it. I throw up and am sick. He runs up the stairs with his long legs and small chubby feet (so telling of his parents, Z and me). Rubs my back and his presence is really so comforting. Keeps asking me questions while I am throwing up. (That says something about me, I have to confess) I lay down, he asks me to get up. I do exactly as he wants. I get a check up. I am asked to sit on the playmat. I cannot. Nevertheless, since life, as he knows it, does not exist outside of the playmat anymore a toy on a strig is used as a stethescope. Next, almost immediately a nail file is produced to check my mouth. I still have no idea where he stashes all this.

I am pronounced fine, given some make believe medicine cupped in his little palm and then told that I have been a very good girl.

Then an imaginary sticker is posted on my knee for being good, just like his pediatrician does.

God, please listen to me when I say that I don't want my little caretaker to grow up.