I'm a bad mom

This is an up-to-date post, not a catch-up one. I've been sick all weekend with a nasty head cold/cough/aches, etc. I'm finally feeling a bit better, but not 100%. Last night, Nate came in my room and woke me up, probably somewhere around 2:30. Don't know for sure, I was way too groggy. The conversation went something like this (read my part in a mumble and Nate's in a whisper):

Nate: I feel like I'm going to throw up.
Me: Then go in the bathroom.

two minutes later...
Nate: It's too dark in the bathroom.
Me: Then turn on the light.

a minute later:
Nate: The light is too bright. Can I go in your bathroom?
Me: Yes, but close the door so I don't see the light.

Note: Closing the door doesn't completely block out the blinding glare.

a minute later:
Nate: That light is too bright too.
Me: Then don't turn on the light. Now go back to bed.

five minutes later (or maybe 30, I have no sense of time when I'm asleep), my door opens again :
Nate: Can I get in bed with you?
Me: No, go back to bed.
Nate: But I just want to snuggle.
Me: And I just want to sleep. Go back to bed.
Nate: How about Dad?
Me: No, he's sleeping. Go back to bed.

shortly thereafter, I hear Nate's voice, this time not a whisper, in the hallway and I realize he is talking to a brother. Great, who has he awakened?? I fly out of bed, run down the hallway, just in time to discover that he is in Jon's room, and the door is locked. Apparently Jon said that Nate could snuggle with him. I pull Nate out of Jon's room and send him back to bed. Nate starts to sniffle. I take him in the hallway and explain to him that he cannot go waking people up in the middle of the night to snuggle. People need to sleep. I tell him to give me a kiss and go back to bed. He does, but I hear him begin to cry. I stand in the doorway of my room and say, "Don't you dare cry!"

I climb back into bed and try to go back to sleep. Charles is snoring, as he has been throughout this whole thing. And then I hear:

Holy Ghost/voice of reason/conscience, all at the same time: He's only five. He's just a little guy. In not too many years, he won't want to snuggle any more. Charles would have snuggled with him [ha, retorts me, he's too busy sleeping to even notice]. Just go give him a little love and then get some sleep.

So I throw back the covers, walk into his room, crawl into his bunk, hug him and kiss his sweet little cheek. And realize that he has a fever.

I am a bad mom.