This past month has been pretty rough on all of us, illness-wise. I swear to God I'm going to start sending Henry to day care in a plastic bubble. He had a cold, then possibly RSV, then on Saturday, I was getting ready to take him for a run (well, he was going to ride, I don't have him hitting the track just yet) and he puked all over himself, me, the stroller, several innocent bystanders....I mean, it was bad. So of course I freaked out because I'm a new mom. I find myself walking the line between "He's fine." and "OH GOD CALL AN AMBULANCE" frequently these days. One of the unsettling things I've found out about parenting is that it strips away any idea you had of yourself as a badass who could handle whatever life throws at you-when it's your kid and there's something wrong you feel totally vulnerable, and that drives me nuts.
So despite all my wonderful plans to spend this beautiful fall weekend walking to the park and doing picturesque things like pushing my kid in a swing, I ended up alternately comforting him and cleaning up red puke, thanks to Pedialyte. He's doing ok now, though, and this bug seems to have skipped over Ben and I (thankfully) so hopefully this work week will be less adventurous. Good thing I found a part time job that's pretty flexible-I work for a bunch of dentists who all have kids and are no strangers to the weird illnesses they constantly bring home.
Really, though, this weekend hasn't been all that different than weekends in my early twenties, except the vomiting wasn't causes by a late night out at a show and thinking that mixing Red Bull, Midori, and vodka was just a terrific idea at one in the morning. And while my memories are a bit fuzzy due to sleep deprivation, I'm fairly certain I didn't get into any fights or fall down. Ah, maturity.
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