It was quite obvious that something wasn't right this morning. Miles was super cuddly, his head felt warm and he was ready for a nap at 8 a.m.
So I did what any working mom would do: I gave him a dose of ibuprofen and shipped him off to daycare with not so much as a word that he wasn't feeling well.
I gave the little man the ibuprofen, called in to work and put him down for a nap. A nap that lasted three hours.
I watched "Parenthood" on Netflix.
I made cranberry sauce.
And a sandwich inspired by Panera - Ezekiel 4:9 Sprouted Flax with Laughing Cow Garlic & Herb, roasted chicken and some of that cranberry sauce. An iceberg wedge with yogurt blue cheese dressing on the side. Totally delicious.
When Sir Sleeps A Lot decided to break his slumber, it was quite obvious that he was not feeling well. He didn't want to eat the bean, cheese and guacamole burrito I had made. He didn't even want a cracker. And his breathing? He was aiming for a new rapper name -- Young Wheezy.
Side story: They all have rap names at day care for reasons that elude me, and Miles was dubbed Bean Head because he loves chili.
I was lucky enough to get Miles an appointment, during which I was sure that the doctor would tell me that there was nothing more wrong with Miles than a simple cold.
Wrong. Oh so wrong.
We have double ear infections and bronchiolitis, which require antibiotics, steroids and breathing treatments. It was pure torture (for both of us) to hold him down with the mask on his face. But it helped.
And while Miles is a pretty amiable child when he's sick, I still find it hard to be home with him all day. Maybe I'm not used to it or I'm missing the mom gene or I'm just selfish but all I could do was stare at the clock and count the minutes until Mark would be home. And pray that he'd take over so I could go for a run.
Thankfully, he obliged. Four miles later, and I was home rejuvenated and centered. Ready to help Miles kick bronchiolitis' ass.