"I'm a little bit sad, Mummy," my Sprocket informs me. After a long day, we talk in bed in the dark, reconnecting after we've been at odds more times than I can count.
"I'm sorry darling, why are you sad?"
"My arm is broken. My leg is broken. My head is broken. My shoelace is broken," he tells me, his voice heartbroken. "I need to go to hospital. My tummy is ouchy. There's a little baby in my tummy."
"Is the baby okay?" I ask.
"It's okay," he reassures me. "It's not stuck. It's just little."
"That's good. Tell you what, in the morning Daddy will check you and we can put a bandaid where it hurts."
"Wow!" He says, and once again, I'm amazed at the awe and wonder he can pack into one little word.
Afterwards he tells me about the things he is scared of - my brave little adventurer who really isn't scared of much at all, definitely not trifling things like gravity or Mummy's Very Scariest Voice. And the effects of us all being sick and way too much television are so clear. He's scared of rocket ships crashing, fires and scary monsters.
But we're on the way up now, all gradually getting better. The TV is on it's way out. The panadol are less in evidence. Driving home from playgroup the trees are all in blossom - our own are being recalcitrant - the sky is blue and daffodils line the drives. Hello Spring. Bye-bye sick-times and little-bit-sad-times.