Today I know that I hate it when my kids are sick and suffering.
I know that when a doctor drops the phrase "glandular fever" into the mix when examining your 2 year old, your heart will turn flipflops.
I know that I worry more than I should, and that I probably lose my nerve too quickly, rushing to doctors and hospitals when bedrest is what's actually indicated.
I know, though, that I'd never forgive myself if I under-reacted, and that led to my child getting a lot sicker.
I know that when I woke this morning with a agonising cough and fever of 39.5, and ascertained that I have not one but TWO very sick kids to care for, I regretted hubs taking a Carer's Day yesterday, because, workplaces being what they are, this made it impossible for him to take another today.
I know that I am upset with myself for making questionable decisions all down the line this week, resulting in my kids probably being sicker than they needed to be, and maybe exposing other children to their lurgies.
I know that I need to get better at making the hard calls, even if it makes my children or my occasional employers unhappy sometimes. The fact that the kids wanted to go to school swimming shouldn't have outweighed my feeling that they weren't well enough to; that the fact that the big kids wanted to go to gymnastics training shouldn't have been allowed to gazump the todler's obvious need to be home in the warm; the fact that I was scheduled to work on Wednesday shouldn't have overriden my uncertainty about whether the toddler was well enough for creche.
I know that I feel like crap, and like a crap parent.
I know that my toddler and 8 year old feel awful too, and that's almost harder to bear.
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