LIKE CRAZY CAKES

Dear Spike:

This is not the way your mother intended to start her summer vacation.

She called me from school yesterday afternoon. "Please come and get me," she said. "I'm sick."

Boy, was she ever. Green in the face and unsteady on her feet, she walked to the car as though she'd just been hit by a logging truck.

She was feeling a bit better today, but not enough to head back for the last day of school. Your Auntie Sue said goodbye to the class — a good third of which was missing, apparently having been brought down by the same bug your mother has.

It's because of the apparently hyper-contagious nature of you're mother's current ailment that we decided it would be best to keep you and her apart, today. So it was that, for the first time in the two years that you've spent on this planet, you went a whole day without a hug or a kiss from your mommy.

It took a while, but you ultimately seemed to understand the funny new don't-touch-mommy game we were playing — although you did attempt a few end runs around the no-contact clause of your contract, today.

"Mommy is very, very sick," you said.

"That's right," I said.

"She needs to go to the doctor," you said.

"Could be," I said.

"I'm a doctor!" you suggested.

One neat thing about this otherwise unfortunate arrangement is that it gave your mother a chance to watch us in action as we went about our daily routine. As I got your ready for a morning run, fixed your lunch and read you books before your nap, she watched from the sidelines.

"You know, you're a pretty good dad," she said a few times today.

I smiled and shrugged. I think I am a pretty good dad, but it felt good to hear her say that.

I don't usually get to watch over you from wake-up to bed-down, so today was quite a joy for me. I even got to take you on a date to the Lebanese restaurant down the street from our home while your mother rested. And you were absolutely lovely company.

I know the day was torture for her, though. She loves you like crazy cakes. And to have to spend an entire day without being able to nibble on your little toes or blow on your tiny tummy or nuzzle into your little neck was simply too much for her to bear.

She cried a lot today.

In the end, it might not matter that we kept you apart. Like a game of viral Risk, your little body might already have been conquered by the same microscopic army that's playing "When Johnny Comes Marching" with your mother's immune system right now. Mine, too, for that matter. Ugh.

I'm hoping, though, that we've managed to save you that pain. Not just for your sake, but for your mother's, too. She missed you a lot, today, and I'd hate to think that she'd gone through all of that for naught.

No matter what happens, though, you should know that your mother loves you so much that she's willing not to hug and kiss you.

And that's a lot of love.

Love,
dad