Sweet Husband walked into the bathroom this morning as I was combing my wet hair. "He can't go to school today," he told me over the rim of his cup of coffee.
"Yeah, I had pretty much reached the same conclusion," I frowned. A little cough is one thing, but the Kid was hacking and tearful and obviously not feeling well.
"I can stay home, I guess...." Sweet Husband volunteered.
"No, that's OK. I actually kind of want to."
And despite the fact that I've been trying to hoard hours of sick and vacation leave like dragon's treasure, it was true. I needed a break from the world.
I love my job, but there are days that I'm downright envious of those Scandinavian parents who have paid maternity leave until their kids are, like, twelve. The three months(ish) I'm planning to take off after the baby is born are downright luxurious compared to most of my American pregnant-lady-counterparts, but saving all that time for post-baby means working more-or-less until I go into labor.
Again, I'm lucky. My job is about as un-physically demanding as it gets. I could do it on bed rest if I had to.
But mentally? I'd be a big, fat liar if I tried to pretend that these next few months are going to be anything but exhausting.
And so, I was definitely not super sad when the Kid gave me the chance to call "Uncle!" for the day.
He played trains and napped and watched movies. I played with my new sewing machine and napped and baked pavlova. By five'o'clock, we were both doing better than we had been. It was a sick day well spent.