He woke up with a 102.7 fever on Saturday morning. He was coughing this wet, mucus-y cough and looked downright miserable. I immediately called the pediatrician and got an appointment that day at 10:45am.
Which meant I was now unable to attend the Holiday Coffee.
This is an annual Junior League event, and one of my favorites. A sustaining member opens her (giant, impeccably-decorated) home to members, and we sip coffee or tea from real china while balancing our catered appetizers on crystal plates. There is no alcohol or men, and it's quite lovely. It's like women acting like proper women while teetering on four-inch heels. I had selected my outfit months ago with great care, thinking, "What is conservative enough to wear around my grandma, but stylish enough to wear around my friends?" These types of questions keep me up at night.
But alas, my gorgeous grey-and-black lace sweater dress, complete with black tights and my favorite sha-booties, remained in the closet. Instead, I found myself swathed in an old sweatshirt, no make-up on, driving 90 miles an hour to make it to Scotty's doctor appointment.
Why was I driving so fast? And where was I coming from? Good questions.
Oh, just the Health District.
In a story that can only be described as never-ending, RaceGate continues. As mentioned on Friday, the Health District contacted and asked me for a stool sample. Ever agreeable, I said yes. After picking up my poop kit (with horror, mind you), my friend Deana asked me if I wanted to come over for a play-date. Since I felt the need to discuss the poop kit with another human being, I readily agreed. She was just as horrified as I was and promptly decided to open a bottle of champagne, since the idea of pooping in a bowl the size of a Cool-Whip container was too much for both of us to handle.
So now I'm going to test positive for parasites and Prosecco.
Anyways, the directions said you can take the sample in immediately, or it can be refrigerated for up to 24 hours. After doing the deed on Saturday morning, I was so aghast at putting this thing in my fridge (despite the multiple levels of plastic wrap) that I told Brian to take the Bear to the appointment; I would meet him there.
And so, that's how I found myself dropping off my Cool-Whip container to an unmarked warehouse on MLK and the 15 on a Saturday morning, and then turning around and driving like a mad woman back to Summerlin. Brian claims his car was stinky, but I think he's just messing with me.
The Bear's fever went down on Saturday night, but I still didn't feel good about leaving him. Our sitter still came, giving me time to get some other things done, and when he went to bed, she offered to stay at help me polish the silver. My mom had just sent me this giant chest with strict instructions to polish it before use, so again, instead of donning my new grey and silver dress (grey is still in, right?), I wore rubber gloves and chatted with our part-time nanny (who is lovely, I might add.)
I've never felt like such a Junior League member before. Here I was, polishing silver with the help. I felt like I was in The Help for a second.
Sunday, the Bear continued to fuss and cough, and this morning, his cough - and overall demeanor - was horrible. Another visit to Dr. Awesome yielded us a choo-choo train-shaped nebulizer and directions to use it every four hours for the next five days. Including nighttime.
And with Brian in arbitration all week and me on sick Bear-duty, I cancelled the Christmas party I am hosting on Wednesday.
The food will still be eaten, but the three Christmas trees, cool Costco garland, and new stockings will remain unseen. The lights on the house and on the bushes will not be appreciated by anyone except neighbors. Instead of drinking cranberry bellinis with friends, I will be wiping snot and attempting to nebulize a toddler, which is akin to wresting a slippery, angry pig that bites, kicks and screams.
I am sad.
Such is Motherhood, I guess.