Charleigh, who just passed her first birthday, had two shots and a skin test scheduled. Her doctor offered, in addition, flu shots for both girls, and I decided to go for it.
Charleigh started running a fever last evening: her first-ever, real fever. Not that I know how hot she was, or is; I don't really take temperatures. There's teething-warm, really warm, and get-her-to-the-doctor hot. Charleigh was really warm in the wee hours, not to mention restless and wimpery.
So I cancelled our morning plans, and--when I changed the girls' diapers--I traded their comfy clothes for even "comfier." I'm still wearing my pajama pants, and I have cheese stick smeared across my left shoulder.
We're watching cartoons. (Clementine saw Yogi Bear and gasped, said: "I just saw him, campin'! He talks, Mama! Where's Cindy?") My beloved crocked something overnight, and the log cabin smells like comfort food and dryer sheets.
And I'm thankful. I'm thankful not to worry neither about my (now, just teething-warm) baby in the care of someone else nor about a disgruntled employer whom I've left in the lurch.
Because this is my only job. Some days I do it better than others, but, either way, everything's pretty much always a hot mess; good or bad, to me, has very little to do with dusted, vacuumed, organized or scheduled...and everything to do with kissed.
|Taken just now, as they watch cartoons and eat "printsels" (pretzels)...|