Baby: 423. Mama: 0.

Last week, Johnny’s daycare called me at work. I’m getting used to it. They’ve called at least five times in the last two weeks. “Johnny has a fever.” “Johnny has a fever again.” “Johnny seems sick and has a fever, AGAIN.” Johnny has had multiple double ear infections. Also, he’s teething. Also, he just wants to make my life hard.

So, yesterday when I heard Danielle’s voice on the phone, I was ready to go snatch him up and head to the doctor’s office for the ear infection shot, and make an appointment with an ENT. I already was looking up the number of the ENT I wanted to use, when she said “…he fell down…” Wha? SO WHAT? He falls down ninety seven times a day. Call me when he’s bleeding. “…and cut his lip pretty bad…” Okay, he might be bleeding. But still, how bad can this be? “…and he’s not bleeding anymore but there was a lot of blood and I think you better come look at this.” Oh, fine.

The cut was on the inside of his lip and I was pretty sure there wasn’t anything to be done about it, but I felt like I’d be a bad mom if I didn’t at least take a look. On the way there I called the pediatrician to make sure that indeed, there was nothing to do about an inner-mouth cut, and sure enough, there isn’t. Of course, they suggested I come in anyway “if I was uncomfortable” which basically meant they wanted at $25 copay to tell me in person there’s nothing they can do about it.

So I got there, and Johnny looked fine. He was in clean clothes and walking around the room, no tears at all. And he was VERY happy to see me. Too happy. So happy, that once I picked him up, could not put him down. We rocked, we talked to the other kids, I tried to put him down. NO.

I finally put him down to go home and get him some Tylenol, determined to go back to work. And by the time I got back, he was screaming bloody murder. Seriously, “BLOODY! MURDER! MAMAMAMAMAMA!” So I took him home, out of pity for the poor daycare teacher who looked a little lost. My child has never had such a melt down as he did that day. I tried once to take him back after a nap so I could get in a few more hours at work, but there was nothing doing. That kid was mine for the day.

As usual, I took a teeny tiny bit of guilty pleasure in my child’s pain. I loved the snuggling. I loved feeling loved and needed. I loved that we got to spend the afternoon together, Christmas shopping and shouting “HI HI HI” to everyone in Kohl’s. He didn't seem to be in pain anymore; he'd just decided to refuse daycare. I think he was just rattled.

Nevermind I had work to do. Nevermind I need to save my PTO. Nevermind my new boss probably thinks I have Munchausen’s by Proxy, as much as I’ve missed work for Johnny-related issues lately. I’m sorry that Johnny had to bust up his face in order for us to have that afternoon together, and I’m sorry that his cutest KU outfit is now a blood-soaked mess. But I am not sorry that my Christmas shopping is finally done, or that I got a few extra hours of lap time with my little guy.

I don’t know what other kinds of minor injuries he can get beyond a good fat lip that will warrant a nice afternoon with mommy but no hospital bills or stitches, but I’m open to ideas.


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