Tuesday afternoon the phone rang. My gut said “don’t answer that!”, but I answered it anyway.
Daycare. Captain Adventure had a fever.
See, in my twisted brain, if I hadn’t answered the phone, he wouldn’t have had the fever. I know that in reality it doesn’t work that way – but I reject your reality and substitute my own. If I don’t know about it, it doesn’t exist. Poor kid would have been spared two whole days of misery, if I had just gone with my first instinct and not picked up the phone.
Fortunately, it was the end of the day and I went and got him and no harm was done to my relationships at work – which actually are in danger due to the downright excessive number of days in the last two months during which I have had between one and ten Denizens home with me making a ruin of my working day.
Yesterday he was a bundle of feverish, angsty toddler. So naturally, I made an appointment for him to get his ears and throat checked out by a Qualified Medical Professional, here defined as ‘a person able to write a prescription for Pink Stuff’.
This morning, he was a bundle of angsty toddler…right up until the moment he realized that is was going to be just him, and mommy – his favorite personal slave.
Now? He is Mr. Chuckles. Mr. Charm and Personality. Mr. Sparkling Conversation. Mr. Just So Darned Glad To See Ya.
While I can’t take the day off (job monitor duty, how I loathe thee), I am taking it as a half-a$$ed working day. I come in here, check email and job status, fire off a few comments, and then ditch back into the playroom to cuddle and nurture my sick son – or knit if he’s in one of those ‘don’t touch me, woman! – but do sit in here with me in case I change my mind’ moods. In about an hour, we’re going to the doctor’s office, and then the supermarket / pharmacy (definitely the former, the latter if Pink Stuff is indeed prescribed for ears or throat), and then Supercuts to see if he’s still got eyes under all that hair.
And then? I’m thinking junk food for lunch. Stuff I never let them have – french fries and popcorn chicken at KFC. And stuff I shouldn’t have but will anyway, like maybe one of those KFC bowl things (which I swear should be banned as a leading cause of obesity and diabetes and who knows what-all else) or one of their chicken pot pies or something else I shouldn’t be eating but WOMAN DOES NOT LIVE BY LEAN CUISINE ALONE, PEOPLE!!!!
OK. Glad we’re clear on that. Now if you’ll excuse me, my Lord and Master would like his #1 Slave to return to playroom so he can drool on her some more…
Models of the Atom
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