I left work frustrated today, but I was giggling by the time I got home, not only because it's the weekend, but also because I saw a truck with "Shaggin' Waggin" painted on the back. The universe was trying to tell me, "OK, get a grip, it's not all that bad." And it wasn't that bad, just a minor annoyance, nothing new per se.
When I got home, I turned right around and left to do my weekly shopping at Target. I wanted to get it out of the way so I can hang out with my kid and my husband tomorrow. Jack was fine, sitting at the computer playing games on Nick Jr., but when I got back my baby had a fever of 102.2 degrees and he was asking for his mommy.
I'd planned to get laundry started after I ate dinner. Instead, I sat with him on the couch, checking out how hot he was, talking him into taking some Motrin, and trying to figure out what else I could do to make him feel better. Between his bright red face, blazing hot skin and the pitiful look on his face, my heart just melted.
But then he fell asleep on the couch an hour before bedtime, so we changed him into his pajamas, I sat in his bed and read books to him, then turned out the lights and laid down with him until he fell asleep holding my hand. I'm sad that he's not feeling well, but happy that my 4-year-old still just wants his mommy when he's sick.
The really sick thing about it is that at the same time I'm worrying about his fever, I'm thinking, "Woo Hoo! He's going to bed early tonight, which means more quiet writing time for me!" And we'll probably be home all weekend so that he can recover from whatever is ailing him, so I'll have that much more writing time. It feels so right, but yet, so, so wrong. That's mommy guilt for you.
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