I don’t have to ask one of my friends to go to the store for me and then fight with them when they refuse to let me pay them back.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Least I can do.”
I get Bash a sippy cup filled with Pedialyte and pick the clear Gatorade for myself, and Jonas shoos me back upstairs to rest.
“Here if you need anything,” he says.
He stays.
And I actually sleep.
When I wake up, the sun is streaming through my curtains, which are billowing in a soft, cool morning breeze. Birds chirp. The chickens are clucking. And Bash is chattering away downstairs.
Wait.
Wait.
How is Bash downstairs?
Fifty-fifty shot he climbed out of his crib. I’ve known this day was coming.
Or, Jonas got him up.
He’s still here. I can hear the rumble of his voice replying to whatever Bash is saying.
I stumble through pulling on clothes that don’t smell like the roadkill I resembled last night, my head still woozy but better. I’m definitely not eating anything today, but my stomach is steady enough that I can walk downstairs without the bonus extra nerves making me want to get sick again.
“Mama!” Bash is kneeling on a chair at my round oak dining room table, dressed in nothing but a diaper—clean, by the looks of it—and the applesauce that’s smeared on his chest. He holds up a cracker. “I eat!”
I bury my nose in his hair and press a kiss to his head, breathing in his little boy scent—clean, no vomit—and avoiding looking at Jonas. “Good job. How’s your belly?”
“Hungy.”
“Go slow, okay?”
As if that’ll be a problem. He bounces back from being sick like he’s a spring.
I take a little longer these days, but I do my best to keep up with him.
“Mama babana?” He shoves a mushed banana at my face, which I expertly avoid by kissing his cheek while I pluck it out of his hand.
“Mama will eat in a bit. How are your crackers?”
“Passable.”
Jonas chokes on air.
I smile and ruffle Bash’s hair.Passableis my favorite word that he says. He reserves it for special occasions though, just as he was taught by his favorite auncle. “Good. You’ll have to tell Zen later.”
“Mama have boobooka?” Bash asks.
I shake my head. “Mama has Gatorade. Kombucha is for later.”
“I feed dick-dicks?”
“You did already, or we still need to?”
