We got a heaping helping of life last night.
Dunked in irony, rolled in Murphy's Law, sprinkled with a bit of "well-this-just-sucks."
At about 10 p.m. last night, Henry started throwing up. For those of you paying attention, that would be the night before I start my new job.
Keep in mind that for the last two years, I've been home nearly every day. He was maybe sick twice in all that time. The one day he might really need me, I've committed myself back to the 8-5 world and can't stay home to hold his head and wipe his brow and force Pedialyte down his poor little throat.
Not only that, but horrible me, my first thought was, "Ohmigod. When am I going to start puking?!" My son ceased to exist as a beautiful cherub and became a giant, repulsive germ. Luckily, my husband is a sweetheart, a wonderful daddy, and the parent with the awesome benefits and sick leave policy. So he said he'd watch over H and stay home with him today.
Go to bed honey, he said. Get some rest. Don't worry about anything.
And as I was falling asleep, my mind wandered: I wonder whether a barf bag is included in the HR paperwork packet I'll be getting. Do the vending machines dispense Pepto? I wonder if the nausea will hit before or after they take my picture for the ID badge -- the one I'll be stuck with for the next five years.