Lunch was almost over.
I tore the last bit of Baby Brother’s sandwich into two smaller pieces while finishing my own sticky mess of a peanut butter and honey sandwich when I noticed Little Legs slipping from the table.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Down here,” a puny voice said.
I stood up to peek around Baby Brother, happily sucking the honey and peanut butter from the bread, to see Little Legs resting his head on the seat of his chair. He pulled a red wax cheese wrapper from one side of the chair to the other, like a lethargic cat toying with a dead mouse.
“Just playing,” he explained with his cheek squished out under the weight of his head, as a most convenient pillow.
“Are you tired?”
“No,” he replied without looking up.
“Are you sick?”
“No,” he repeated as he dragged the wrapper in a zig-zag across the seat of the chair.
He clearly was both, sick and tired, which was confirmed when he drove his dump truck to bed, climbed up over the edge and went to sleep without a single request for nap-time water, a trip to the potty, or more cars to keep him company.
I couldn’t think beyond the next two hours and wondered if Covid had finally come calling.