At 1:26 a.m. we heard the dreaded sound. A raspy cry and wheezing cough making its way down the steps and to our room.
I was still half asleep when the daddy jumped up.
He calmed our little man and immediately started a steamy shower. He went to the kitchen and got him some water. He stood in the shower and comforted him. He wrapped him in a towel and rocked him. He sang a special song. He laid him on the floor next to our bed and turned on worship music for him. He crushed up a popsicle and fed it to him from a spoon.
You must be wondering what I was doing. I was running through the house searching for allergy meds. I looked for the breathing machine. I even woke the ten year old to ask where Mr. Frog, the breathing machine, was. To no avail I might add, waking a tween is like trying to catch the wind.
I ran through the house trying to find something, anything, to make him better. As it turns out, he already had it. He had his daddy.
Because I was still half asleep when the daddy jumped up.
What a beautiful gift a daddy can be. I laid in the dark listening to both of them breathing and thanked God for the man sleeping next to me and the little man on the floor.
The daddy in our house has never been a middle of the night kind of guy when it comes to babies. But when a sick kid comes down the stairs I can guarantee,
I’ll be half asleep when the daddy jumps up.