I'm posting today from the homefront. Well, I'm always posting from the homefront. Difference now is this...
1) I have yet to shower. (grossness, as my sister and I would say)
2) I have yet to put on anything resembling clothing other than sleepwear. Outfit du jour, leggings, oversized Old Navy orange long sleeve top, tank, and glasses.
3) I am wearing my favorite LL Bean slippers.
Here is the thing. Shhhhhhh...
I. Am. Not. Sick.
Nope. But my little guy is. And I am sick as hell of him being sick.
Last night, as I was on the precipice of sleep. You know, that moment where you are blissfully aware that you are just about to drift off? Yeah, that. Our bedroom door creeeeeaaakkkkeeeddd open and little feet stormed into my bliss. Something about a robot with red eyes on the ceiling fan. And then an obscenely hot little body was smushed against mine. I was a bad mom and asked this hot little guy to walk his scared butt back to his room-THROUGH THE DARK AND SCARY HOUSE.
I know, abject apologies. I'll pay for that session of therapy for him. In cash.
When I got him to his room, he tells me of his pounding headache. His flushed cheeks told me what the issue was. Then the thermometer confirmed it. Sigh. Medicine issued, blankies tucked, I (foolishly) thought we were back in the business of sleep.
Hell to the no.
There I lay, on my precipice and again...creeeeeaaaakkkkkk..."I need tissues" in the most pathetic voice. I flipped on the bedside light (mostly in fear of our son's vomit. I am terrified of vomit. Mine. My son's. Other people's.) But it was snot. My husband wiped snotty nose. We resigned ourselves to a child sleeping on our bedroom couch.
Today, I am home. And I am sick of my son being sick. This is about a three week cycle for us. Two weeks of health followed by one week of misery. Scheduled an appointment with the ENT. I am almost positive my baby will be losing more than teeth this year.