We spent last weekend at a borrowed house on Lake Ontario in Oswego, NY. The house and property was beautiful, lake front sunsets, hot tub, huge deck setup, fantastic. The downside? The place was unexpectedly overrun with fleas, and the town of Oswego turned out to be a little too bud lite-NASCAR-bowling alley-seedy bar for my taste. Oh well. The other major setback, I think my kid may have been bitten by a tick.
Nathan seemed fine throughout our trip. Better than fine, I couldn't drag him out of the hot tub long enough to towel off. As soon as we arrived home he spiked a fever that still doesn't want to come down. Boo hiss. Poor little dude (who as many of you know is anything but tired and sickly most of the time) has been up all night crying in pain, vomitting, and shaking with fever. Talk about a parenting nightmare.
I've had my share of sick days and nights with my kids but it never fails to raise my anxiety flag whenever they are not well, especially when it doesn't seem to be getting better. Moms are instinctually trained to listen for the sounds of a child vomitting, coughing, breathing funny, you name it, we have it on our radar. We lie in our beds vigilantly waiting for some sign of trouble and leap up into the night to measure out the Tylenol, man the nebulizer, give the back rubs, or whatever the need may be, while our faithful husbands snore away in oblivion. Men don't (in my experience) seem to possess the same barrometer for sickness that we do. Too bad because man am I tired.
Francisco called me to check in on Nathan this morning and was barely listening when I said that he's about the same, not much change. Instead he chirped into the phone "He's better? Great!" and then hung up without saying goodbye. Weird male denial instinct. Huh.
Tonight I am going out with some mom friends for a small respite before my nighttime duty calls. Hooray for mom friends and vodka. Hooray.
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