just_muse_me | 15.1.2. Winston Churchill quote
15.1.2. “If you're going through hell, keep going.” - Winston Churchill
Co-written with doctortara
Tara didn’t bother trying to brush the distressed tears from her cheeks as she bounded down the stairs stuffing a handful of Riley’s diapers into his baby bag. He had been crying non-stop for close to three hours now. Her maternal instinct was screaming inside her. She came into the living room where her husband was pacing back and forth with their sobbing son bundled protectively against his chest. “We’re going to the hospital,” she told him tearfully and started to gather up some more random baby items into the bag. It was nearing one am, but she didn’t care. He wasn’t stopping and she was petrified to verbalise her fears.
“It has to just be the nappy rash,” Lachlan said helplessly, his own voice shaky with worry. “It isnae getting better, even with all those fancy creams we’re trying.” The father in him was far outweighing the practical doctor right now. He hadn’t slept in nearly forty eight hours and the last thing he wanted to admit was that his wee boy was ill.
“Exactly!” Tara cried, stopping and looking at him pleadingly. “You don’t need me to spell out what that means! You don’t need me to spell out what the bucket load of wet nappies upstairs means, or what the six bottles of water he’s gone through tonight alone means, or what the six hour nap today means!”
She paused, drawing in a breath and letting it out slowly, despite the unstoppable tears slipping down her cheeks. “We’re going to the hospital,” she repeated slowly and moved over beside them to wipe at Riley’s eyes and nose with a bib she had collected from the arm of the sofa. “We’re going and we’re going to deal with this just like all the other shit that keeps getting piled on us. And we’re going to do that because he’s our son and he needs us to take the hurt away. Okay?” She touched her husband’s cheek, holding his gaze with a scared determination.
Lachlan’s own eyes welled up with helpless tears, but he bit down on his lip and nodded. “Aye,” he agreed hoarsely and rested his cheek against his son’s little head. “Aye, let’s go.”
Word Count | 368
Co-written with doctortara
Tara didn’t bother trying to brush the distressed tears from her cheeks as she bounded down the stairs stuffing a handful of Riley’s diapers into his baby bag. He had been crying non-stop for close to three hours now. Her maternal instinct was screaming inside her. She came into the living room where her husband was pacing back and forth with their sobbing son bundled protectively against his chest. “We’re going to the hospital,” she told him tearfully and started to gather up some more random baby items into the bag. It was nearing one am, but she didn’t care. He wasn’t stopping and she was petrified to verbalise her fears.
“It has to just be the nappy rash,” Lachlan said helplessly, his own voice shaky with worry. “It isnae getting better, even with all those fancy creams we’re trying.” The father in him was far outweighing the practical doctor right now. He hadn’t slept in nearly forty eight hours and the last thing he wanted to admit was that his wee boy was ill.
“Exactly!” Tara cried, stopping and looking at him pleadingly. “You don’t need me to spell out what that means! You don’t need me to spell out what the bucket load of wet nappies upstairs means, or what the six bottles of water he’s gone through tonight alone means, or what the six hour nap today means!”
She paused, drawing in a breath and letting it out slowly, despite the unstoppable tears slipping down her cheeks. “We’re going to the hospital,” she repeated slowly and moved over beside them to wipe at Riley’s eyes and nose with a bib she had collected from the arm of the sofa. “We’re going and we’re going to deal with this just like all the other shit that keeps getting piled on us. And we’re going to do that because he’s our son and he needs us to take the hurt away. Okay?” She touched her husband’s cheek, holding his gaze with a scared determination.
Lachlan’s own eyes welled up with helpless tears, but he bit down on his lip and nodded. “Aye,” he agreed hoarsely and rested his cheek against his son’s little head. “Aye, let’s go.”
Word Count | 368