Sleeping on the couch in the pre-dawn hours with a feverish toddler on your chest is like snuggling up to a furnace. That’s OK in January, but pretty uncomfortable in July when the forecast is calling for triple digit temps and a heat index of up to 109 degrees.

I’m not complaining, though. I’m just remembering romantic scenes that played out in my head before I actually had children: the tender mother pulling an all-nighter, rocking her sick child, wiping a sweaty brow, kissing a damp hairline. Fortunately, Mary wasn’t as crabby as my sick kids tend to be, and I do not also have a needy infant draining my reserves day and night. Last night was the closest I’ve ever gotten to that “perfect” infirmary scene.

Still, I couldn’t help but wish that the ibuprofen would work a little faster to help her settle down a little sooner so we could both get some sleep.