It was supposed to be a footloose, fun and fancy-free girl’s weekend on the beach. We’d been planning our getaway for almost six months. Because when you’re a mom, these things take time to organize.
It was supposed to be. It was not.
There were six of us. All mamas. Ten kids (seven boys, three girls – all under the age of five) remained back home.
Packed in the car were bottles of wine, champagne and orange juice, margarita ingredients. Graham crackers, Hershey bars and marshmallows for s’mores in the firepit were at the ready. Swimsuits were stowed away for late nights in the hot tub.
I had spent the week at a conference for work in fabulous Las Vegas. Which mean that I was exhausted and had been ready to simply relax and hang out with my girls since I first set foot on my flight to Vegas. (Tricia insight: I don’t do well in large crowds where I need to be constantly “on.” Obvious for a former theatre major right?)
We arrived to our ocean-front destination with waves crashing against the shore, while the sun set a glowing backdrop for our picturesque party scene.
Clad in the mommy cliché of yoga pants and knotted hair ties, we were comfortable in our uniform. (I am not making this up.) One and a half margaritas later, I got a text.
“Search has a fever of 102. Where’s the Tylenol?”
The muppets were home with GrammaJ, so I knew they were in good hands. (Jon was at work.) But still!
Jon had responded to my mother, “Don’t tell Tricia.” He was concerned it would ruin my weekend. But alas, Jon didn’t know where the Tylenol was. Because I was the last one to hide it organize all the cupboards and put it away in its new home.
So Tricia was told. It didn’t go well.
The problem was that the fever seemed to have come out of nowhere. Search suddenly wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t talk and was lethargically moping on the couch. This is exceedingly out of character for my little man. (In hindsight, this may have been a ploy for more GrammaJ time.)
He won’t act sick. When he had pneumonia last year, we only discovered it because his brother, Destroy, clearly indicated he was ill. Typically, Search is stoic. “Just give me my trucks. I need to play.”
“Is there wheezing? Please keep me posted,” I texted back before abandoning my adult beverage and immediately calling home.
Wheezing scares me. It means an issue with their little lungs. I know they’re almost three. And they’ve graduated from high risk; so theoretically, they’re just typical tiny germ mongers now. So the good news? We can’t call the doctor in a panic and use the preemie card. The bad news? We can’t call the doctor in a panic and use the preemie card.
I don’t typically handle this time of year well. It’s so close to the epic fail that was their birth. (Again, yes I know they’re almost three. Logic does not factor into my thought processes in terms of sick kids.) Combined with the exhaustion of already having been gone all week, the sudden fever spike sent me into a spiral.
In the midst of a mommy breakdown, I decided to cut my weekend short and go home. I knew he was in good hands. I knew he’d be okay. The question became would *I* be okay.
Because I was chillin’ in the company of my mommy friends, they simply hugged me, reminded me that they were sure my little dude would be fine, but that I’d feel better by going home. Also, they’d drink my share of the margaritas and wine.
My mom said she knew Jon didn’t want me to give up my weekend. But she would have done the exact same thing in such a situation.
So I went home and called the doctor in a panic after the fever continued past 72 hours.
Search does not have p-neumonia. He has a cold. (But he sounded REALLY bad. Reminiscent of a past trip to the ER with Destroy, only to be told he had the sniffles.)
Doctor’s orders? Cuddles.
If only I could get him to sit still…
P.S. I’m gonna need a girls night out do-over.