Monday, January 22
and miserable. My poor Henry. He is mostly past the lying-in-bed-like-a-limp-rag part of his illness. But this next stage seems to have moments of utter misery and despair, possibly due to pain or boredom or the unsettled feeling of being out of his normal routine. Who can say? The clasped hands are not actually imploring me for anything: they are linked because seconds before he was raging and he has learned that squeezing his hands togther while he bellows has better consequences than what he really wants to do: squeeze his mother's head till her jaw snaps. Ouch! He is soon going to be as tall as I am too, so I am glad for his new rage dispersal method, however temporary.
Anyway, this rage seemed to sap what little strength he had mustered, and he is now back upstairs lying in bed like a wet rag. And I do mean wet. Washing machine ho!