Typical.

Sunday absolutely refused to end. Just wouldn’t do it.  Actually, it’s Saturday – Saturday Night, specifically - who is responsible for this whole mess.

Cozy in my bed, I was awakened by Saturday Night’s need for more attention. Cleverly, Saturday Night peppered my son with asthma in an effort to gain my notice.  In and out of the warm bed I repeatedly stumbled all night administering the not-so-helpful medicine.

At 5:30 a.m., it was clear the boy was unable to sleep anymore. So, while the rest of the family finished their Easter dreams, I started the coffee and opened my bag of tricks to entertain the sick boy.

Sunday was so self-absorbed with his own depression - lack of sun and warmth  -that he rudely refused to offer me a nap after such a long night coupled with such an early morning.  The thoughtless day turned into night, and without any rhyme or reason, Sunday chose to exert his power over me and cast a grand spell of asthma on my son.

The curse was impossible to break. It was off to the emergency room where it is guaranteed not a wink of sleep is possible. Technically it was Monday when the little one was released from the hospital at 3:10 am.  When the alarm clock sounded three short hours later, it was Monday’s fault, but I still blamed Sunday.

If Saturday was a taunting devil then Sunday was a passive-aggressive old lady. Nobody was ready for Monday, the hormonal teenager…on crack.

The plan was to stay at home with the sick sweet pea until noon when help would arrive, and I would go to the plantation and check into the slavery ring. Since the sick one did not get into his bed until three o’clock in the morning, it was fairly safe to assume he would be sleeping late and I would be working from home. Imagine the surprise when the pale boy was up and needy at 8:15 a.m.

“Mommy, I need some loving.” Who can resist that?  Me, apparently.  Snuggling with the kindest child in the world, I am answering emails from the 900 people who need something from me. “Mommy, stop computering. Close it. Love me.” Maybe God could skywrite next time. I’m a little hard of hearing.

In a better story, the mother would certainly not go to work and leave her needy child with the housekeeper, but this mother is a whore, a cheap one at that, and she did slip on her really tall shoes and walk out the door. 

(Rationalizations go here:  the sick boy needed a nap; the housekeeper is not a random lady, but a wonderful person who is smart and loving and has known my son his whole life. He loves her immensely. Did you buy it? I almost convinced myself.)

As I mentioned, Monday is a hormonal teenager  -- apparently one with a sick sense of humor. Getting to the office I learn that the main person I supervise and who does the bulk of the work on the account has gotten a new job and has given his two-week notice. I WAS THE ONE WHO WAS GOING TO QUIT. Now, of course, I can’t leave and let the $2m account fall into the toilet.  I could, but I’m not that kind of a person…. just kind of person who walks away from their sick child.

The good thing about teenagers is that they don’t have much staying power.  That’s why I am sitting on the floor next to my sleeping child's bed. The breathing is still ragged, but I am confident that I can outlast Monday and win this battle.

Tuesday is a friend of mine from way back, and I’m confident he owes me a favor from when my birthday was on a Tuesday and I celebrated all day. Let's hope.

Comments

[hokgardner]

Poor boy and poor mama. I hope today is better.