There are days, a lot of them lately, when I just have a hard time dealing with any changes in my routine. This continual sickness has worn away at my patience, my stamina, and my empathy. I am not currently the mom I know I can be. Every day I wake up, hoping that today will be the magical day that the plague of death will pass my door. If I had lamb’s blood on hand, I’d be smearing it somewhere. Well, I’d probably have Dan do it, thus saving me another trip to the puker.
Last night the kids were up several times. Magoo was just playin’ around and acting like a 3-year-old, but Laylee said her tummy hurt and Dan took her downstairs for something to eat. This morning I had the hardest time waking her up for school and she felt warm to the touch.
“It’s because she slept in fleece jammas,” I told myself. “Everyone’s warmer when they first wake up.”
She did not look great. But I had stuff to do this morning. I had to make dinner for 3 families as part of a dinner exchange, where the families will then bring us dinner in return. I had to go grocery shopping. I had to work to hold down my breakfast while trying to grow a person. I had Magoo set up with a play date so I could do all of these things alone, a 2-hour break from parenting.
And she was warm. And she looked awful. I honestly considered for just a minute not taking her temperature so I wouldn’t “know” if she had a fever and sending her off to school so I had one less thing to worry about.
One less thing.
Whom I love.
Whom I made the choice to stay home and care for.
I got out the thermometer. 102. I called the school.
When I told Laylee I was keeping her home to take care of her, she almost cried. “Mom. I love you so much,” she murmured and threw her arms around me. I was filled with a strange mixture of guilt and pleasure, pleased that I’d actually made the right choice and guilty/horrified that I’d almost sent her off to school to suffer and infect the other kids.
Yeah. I feel crappy. But come on! I’m glad I took her temperature.