The Lad came home Tuesday with a fever of 103. But by the time he was showing any sort of symptoms -- stillness, The Lad was still and the daycare ladies knew this was a problem; does that tell you what life with this kid is like? -- it was the usual pick-up time. I was ready to stay home with him on Wednesday, but The Lad woke up perfectly fine. I was all settled in at work when the husband called.
Daycare would not take The Lad.
The husband signed the sick book, and once you sign the sick book, you can't bring the kid in the next day. Of course, the husband didn't know that -- apparently, he a) did not read the school handbook I told him to take a look at and b) did not listen to me last time I was annoyed about this very necessary, but not always convenient rule. He was very irritated. He became more irritated when I sided with the daycare ladies and was all like, Dude. You signed THE SICK BOOK.
Then, I got irritated because while I was getting things in order to leave work, the husband called me twice in a two minute span. (Once was to tell me he didn't want to bring The Lad into the office to hand him off to me. Apparently, he's still shell-shocked from the time The Lad projectile vomited all over his boss' office.) I got more irritated when, after corralling Beastie down our open office stairs and across the parking lot, I arrived to find the husband had parked too close to my car. I couldn't get the door open more than a foot to get the kiddo inside.
"Jesus, Mike!" I snapped.
"Je-jus Mike. Je-jus Mike."
So, I took Beastie to the doctor who determined the kiddo had some sort of crud stuck in his lungs. He prescribed a nebulizer treatment. We used to have to do neb treatments with The Boy all the time, and while he was freaked out a little at first, he mostly just sat and took it.
Not The Lad. He wrestled and writhed and cried and smacked at me. The nurse gave him a sucker, thinking he'd hold still to eat it. He took two licks then pitched on the floor. We were not coming near him with that thing. He eventually breathed in enough to make him sound like he was hacking up a lung.
While the doctor was giving me the scripts, The Lad opened the door and went walking down the hall, one hand in the air behind him.
At CVS, waiting to get scripts filled, The Lad and I picked out some candy for our annual pumpkin party and a pumpkin bucket to hold the goodies. He carried the pumpkin and was great until I made a strategic mistake by taking time to look at makeup. I turned around to find him with the pumpkin bucket on his head.
"Pum-pin. Pum-pin hat," he giggled. And then he ran.
I left without my eyeliner.
This morning, the husband had to go to an appointment early, so I turned on the TV to babysit while I showered. Halfway through, The Boy popped into the bathroom.
"Momma, the bug man's here!"
Assuming our exterminator was standing on the front doorstep waiting to be let in, I flew out of the tub, wrapped up in a towel and my robe -- thank god I keep a robe there, hanging useless 364 days of the year! -- and ran sopping wet into the living room.
And there stood the bug man. The Boy had unlocked our deadbolted front door and let him in.
We had a serious discussion on the way to school about strangers and not letting them into our home.
How's your week?