I felt terrible this week, and I had to take care of my kid, who felt just as terrible (probably worse), all by myself. Also, we were trying to get our house on the market. It was a hard week, filled with doctor visiting and nose-wiping and a desperate, futile battle to keep the house clean. I felt very sorry for myself.
But now it's over, and I'm back at work. (Well, over for me--Poor Mr. A. now has a cold and is home alone with still semi-sick Soren. S4, we're calling him now.) I sound like your cigar smoking granny, but I feel okay. And there is stuff coming up to look forward to.
Soon I'll stop working every weekend, which means more daycare time for Soren, but also more time for us to spend as a family and with friends. (Friends! Call me! I swear sometimes I answer the phone.) Because of the scheduling vagaries of the library, there will also be two days a month when I'm off, but daycare is already paid for. So I can drop Soren off for at least part of the day and then, oh my, the possibilities boggle the mind. Go out to lunch someplace without high chairs! Linger in stores! Nap.
I feel guilty for how excited I am about those two days, but my guilt is tempered by the knowledge that I will mostly spend them cleaning the house.