It's hard to forget the worry-factor of the first year after you have your first-born. Especially when they're sick; every sniffle, every colic is cause for concern. Can remember more than a few scary moments when I was petrified by indecision: is he becoming dehydrated? Is that cry different than his normal one? Hasn't this fever lasted far too long?
And then, of course, they become older and less fragile; better able to articulate exactly what's bothering them.
(and being my children they articulate it almost too well. Like the time when a 2 1/2 year old B announced loudly in a crowded waiting room that his diaphragm hurt. Half of me wanted to shout "DID YOU ALL GET THAT?!" The other half wanted to throw my jacket over Baby Einstein and sneak him out the door before NASA nabbed him for suspicious paranormal activity.)
Over time one starts to approach the care of sick children the way one would a WWF match-- your viral opponents may put on an impressive show, but if you're lucky a smackdown probably won't cause the little darling any lasting injuries...
But there's a fine line between remaining optimistically unruffled and lounging on one's laurels when playing Dr. Quinn, medicine woman.
This morning when S woke up with stomach cramps I wrote it off as something that he'd be over before the end of the morning. No fever? No diarrhea? No problem! Gave him a big hug and sent him on his merry way to school.
They called within a half an hour. He had thrown up on his desk. And was morose. And embarrassed.
He's now home, tucked safely in bed. And me? I'm here at the kitchen table blogging about guilt and the shifting sands of being a parent. No matter how seasoned you think you are motherhood has a way of lying calmly in wait in a dark closet to jump out at an unexpected moment with a double serving of humble pie. with a big, fat cherry on top...
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