The flu
The bedroom is dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows across the walls. Rain patters gently against the window, a quiet rhythm in the background. The air is warm, but you shiver under the blankets, your body aching, your skin clammy with fever. Your nose tickles constantly, but you’re too little to understand why, too little to do anything but whimper and squirm, miserable and uncomfortable.
Your head feels heavy, your limbs weak and useless. You don’t like this. You don’t like feeling yucky.
A soft creak of the door makes you startle, and then there are hands, gentle and warm, pressing against your forehead.
“Fy, du er så varm,” Ingrid murmurs, her voice soft with concern. The Norwegian words don’t quite make sense, but the tone does.
You sniffle, barely able to lift your head. “Mama…”
“Ja, mama’s here,” Ingrid soothes, smoothing back your damp hair. “Poor liten en.”
You whimper, eyes fluttering shut again as another tickle creeps up your nose. Your breath hitches, tiny and shaky, and then-
“Hh-hhehh-! Hh’ktschhh! Hh’ktsHHhiew!”
The sneezes force your body forward, your nose running, your whole face scrunching up in discomfort. It’s too much. You don’t understand what’s happening, why your body keeps doing this, why your nose won’t stop.
You let out a wobbly, pathetic cry, your tiny fists clenching in the blankets. You just feel yucky. Everything is yucky.
“Shh, mi vida.” Another voice now, softer, warmer-Mapi. The bed dips as she slides in beside you, scooping you up effortlessly. “Mami’s got you.”
You melt into her instantly, pressing your fever-hot face into her chest. She’s warm, but not in the awful, burning way you are. She smells safe. You let out a tiny, shuddery sigh, curling against her.
Ingrid sighs beside you, dabbing at your nose with a tissue. “I know, lille venn. You don’t feel good.”
You whimper again, but it’s cut off by another sudden sneeze, your whole body jerking with the force of it.
“Hh’KTSCHHhh! Hh’tSHHhiew!”
This time, your nose is all messy afterward, and you don’t even realize it before you rub your face against Mapi’s shirt, sniffling weakly.
“Ay, mi amor…” Mapi sighs, but she doesn’t sound mad. Just sad for you. She presses a kiss to the top of your head, rubbing your back as Ingrid gently wipes your face again with the sleeve of her hoodie.
“That was gross,” Ingrid mutters, but there’s no real bite to it. Just quiet amusement under the concern.
Mapi rocks you slightly, her voice dipping into a soothing, quiet hum, the vibrations of it rumbling in her chest. It helps, a little. But then Ingrid is speaking again, and you can tell from her tone that you’re not going to like what she says next. You watch as she grabs the familiar glass bottle from the pocket of her hoodie, along with a syringe.
“You need some medicine, liten en.” She pulls out the correct dose you were able to take.
Immediately, you whimper, shaking your head against Mapi’s chest. No. No medicine. Medicine is yucky.
“Cariño, te ayudará.” Mapi rubs slow circles on your back, voice coaxing.
You shake your head harder, letting out a tiny, frustrated cry. “Nooo…”
Ingrid clicks her tongue. “Sweetheart, it will help. I know you don’t like it, but we need to bring your fever down.”
You sniffle miserably, but you don’t budge.
Mapi presses more kisses to your forehead. “Si tomas un poquito, después podemos ver dibujitos, ¿sí?”
Cartoons. You hesitate, your overheated brain working through it.
Ingrid tilts her head, sensing your tiny bit of consideration. “Maybe some Peppa Pig?”
You sniffle again, considering, but before you can decide, another sneeze overtakes you, your whole body jerking violently in Mapi’s arms.
“Hh’KTSHHhh! Hh’tSHHhh! Hh’ktschhhiew!”
You let out a miserable little noise, your face scrunching up again. You don’t understand why it keeps happening. You don’t like it. You just want it to stop.
Mapi shushes you gently, rocking you a little more. “Ay, pobrecita…”
Ingrid takes that moment to press a little syringe of pink liquid to your lips. “Come on, kjære, just a little. You’ll feel better.”
You try to turn your head away, but Mapi is rubbing your back, murmuring soft, soothing words, and your body is too tired, too weak to keep resisting. Reluctantly, you let Ingrid squeeze the medicine into your mouth-
And immediately, you gag, face twisting in absolute disgust. It’s the worst thing ever. The yuckiest thing in the whole world. You glare at Ingrid through bleary, feverish eyes.
Ingrid wipes the bit that dribbled down your chin, her expression unimpressed. “Dramatic.”
Mapi giggles, pressing another kiss to your hair. “Mi bebé dramática.”
You don’t know what that means, but you know they’re being mean. You pout, snuggling deeper into Mapi’s chest in protest.
“Shhh, ya está,” Mapi soothes, stroking your back in slow, steady motions. “Mami’s got you.”
You sniffle, still pouting, but the warm circles on your back, the soft, familiar voice, the safe weight of her arms around you -it’s enough to make the yuckiness just a little bit better.
Ingrid sighs but doesn’t push further. Instead, she reaches for a damp washcloth, carefully wiping your face and neck, the coolness of it easing some of the awful heat on your skin.
“There we go,” Ingrid murmurs. “Better, hmm?”
You let out a tiny, exhausted sigh. By the time they turn on cartoons, you’re already drifting, little and fevered and safe between them. Safe in the warmth of their arms, the gentle hum of their voices, the quiet, unwavering love in every touch, every word.
Even though you feel yucky, you know -deep down, in the tiny, tired part of you that still understands- that you’re taken care of.
And that’s all that matters.