The brat as ministering angel

The brat returned home on Saturday afternoon. Bouncing. Not off the walls as is his usual style but bouncing all right.
The father, having shared one night of hospital duty with mamma, (of the entire week that mamma was in hospital), was looking drained and was not his normal ruddiness.

Pappa moaned and groaned a bit and threw himself onto the bed in abject misery. Mamma laughed sardonically about one night at hospital on sponge duty knocking the stuffing out of macho men. The brat siddled upto sprawled Pappa and put his hand on his brow and frowned thoughtfully.

Mamma, he pronounced, after deep thought and careful consideration. I think Pappa is feverish. Pud d thumomeder in his maoud.

Mamma put a hand to Pappas brow guiltily, feeling shamed about the just concluded ribbing session and almost jumped back from the scald. The thermometer was not required. The man was burning with fever.

Before Mamma could react appropriately, the brat got into the act. Ran into the bathroom. Filled the tumbler with water and dunked two napkins in them. Came out, placed them on the bedside table and took complete charge of the situation. "Pappa. Don move. I is sponging yu." And proceeded to dunk dripping wet napkins on poor Pappa's forehead and extremities. A disgusted Pappa tore them off and sat up.

Brat stood fiercely, arms akimbo. "What is you doin? You wan a injucshun in your bum? Or a beeg needle in yer han? With the bottle hanging on the pipe? No? Den lemme sponge yu!"

Mamma has trained him well.
Sent from BlackBerry® on Airtel