Little Sickie

Poor guy. He threw up last night and now is feverish and listless. He is sleeping on the downstairs couch, clutching a cracker in his hand. He and I have been hanging out since about 4am. At one point he fell off the futon while I took a short bathroom break and he landed with his legs on the trash can up in the air and his face planted on the carpet. And he never woke up.

Awww. Kindred is so sweet to him and kissed his forehead gently on his way out to school. "Feel better, baby," he said.


Noon update: He threw up again, and has been sleeping and sleeping all morning. But the morning was interrupted by this outside our door:


The (most ironic) accompanying story? Michael came home after taking Kindred to school (soo late. He'd also been up most of the night, not sick, just awake.) and pulled up in front of our house. I watched him get out of the car, then just stand in the street looking at his feet for a long time by the curb. Why? Well, folks, there was a grenade (yep) lying there on the street in front of our house looking old and little rusty and, quite frankly, not wanting to be messed with. So Michael moved the car and made the call. The bomb squad didn't have to come (this time), but the cops in blue were baffled and amused (one took a picture with his phone), and the cop in white who came later confirmed that it had indeed been real at one time but was now the equivalent of a discarded souvenir. They took it away, and we chuckled, and called Seid.