Originally published in the Democrat and Chronicle.
‘Twas a nightmare before Christmas when all through the house, my 5-year-old was vomiting, some flung on my blouse.
Reed couldn’t get nestled all snug in his bed, so he lay near the toilet while mom stroked his head.
The bucket was placed on the floor with care, too late for projectile that hit Teddy Bear.
And I holding Spray Nine, removing its cap, wouldn’t dream of settling down and taking a nap.
When from under his covers there arose such a clatter, my blessed boy’s cries had me worry, “What’s the matter?”
Away to his side, I flew like a flash, rubbed his back, kissed his face, while his complexion turned ash.
Dwelling on reindeer and new fallen snow, Reed feared his sickness would make Santa a no-show.
When what to our wondering minds it would appear – a hiatus to headache and upchuck was near.
More rapid than lightning my efforts became, I needed some meds but – what was the name?
To the top of the medicine cabinet – Tylenol! “Now dash away! Dash away! Fever and all!”
So to the TV for Christmas movies he flew, but I ordered him to bed – rest was what he should do.
Dressed in Sponge Bob jammies from his head to his foot, Reed’s clothes were all covered with – well, you know what.
A bundle of toys he hoped for in this shack, and I dreaded I’d catch flu before I could make Santa’s snack.
Cookie dough I reached for up on the shelf, and that’s when it hit me – I wasn’t feeling myself.
I spoke not a word, but went straight to work, disinfecting surfaces where germs tend to lurk.
And laying a tissue aside of his nose and giving a nod, made Reed take several blows.
He sprang back to bed at the command of my whistle, awoke 4 a.m., asked, “Santa bring my launcher with missile?”
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he opened his gifts wrapped tight, “You were right, I needed sleep. I didn’t feel good last night.”