Poor Edward. He gets a cold and it automatically goes right to his lungs, complete with a raging fever. He started today by moving into our bed around dawn (cough cough cough) and from there he only got as far as the couch (cough cough cough.) He felt too crummy to eat breakfast or lunch but by dinnertime he thought he might be able to manage a little plain spaghetti. I made it for him but although I am as indulgent as the next over-indulgent kid-spoiler, when he suggested that I should bring it to him on the couch and feed him like a baby bird, I demurred. He insisted. I said no.
He said, "But I'm too sick to eat at the table. Too. Sick." Then he coughed again and fluttered his eyelashes at me.
I moved him bodily, blanket and all, to the table and suggested he buck up, little camper.