I am exhausted. I have been up most of the night listening to my son breath. No, not some sappy infatuation with the innocent hushed whispers of a recharging child but because of a vulgar metronome of rattling inhales and wheezing exhales.
He woke in a panic of constricted breathing from a croup that returns at the initiation of each cold and then is gone after one night.
There is not much I can do. We have sat in the bathroom with the a hot shower letting the humidity work and I calmed his panic. Now I listen while he labors in and out in his sleep. I mark the time with each round of air moving through his lungs. I can't stop. I can't sleep. I know he will be alright but he is now on the short couch in the living room and I am next to him on the long couch. He is sleeping. I am not.