Z is sick.
I know that it shouldn't bother me, it has been two years without even a sniffle and we are long overdue, but it does. I look around the house and think, "It's no wonder that she is sick, what with the dishes sitting in the dishwasher and more dishes waiting in the sink. It's no wonder when the carpets didn't get vacuumed this week or the cobwebs swept from the ceiling fan. It's no wonder since I can't remember the last time that the house had a full throttle deep clean (okay, I know that it was this summer when I was unemployed, but the month eludes me). It's a wonder that we are all alive."
The reality is that my house could be spit-spot clean, cleaner than it has ever been and my kid would still get sick.
Because kids get sick.
It's what they do the best. And if my stupid mommy-guilt would shut up for one bleeping second, I would remember this, I would know that it is okay.
Instead, I am racked with guilt every time I give a dose of Tylenol. Every time I am awakened in the middle of the night by that terrible cough. Every time I see how pale her skin is, how dark the circle under her eyes are, how very, very tiny and small she seems now that her roar is not too big.
And it kills me. Each and every time.
She will get better, I know that she will. In fact, just today she was telling me that she think she might want a tomato (this is a good sign, she has had no appetite for days and tomatoes are her FAVORITE food).
But until she is 100%, until I can see Supergirl fully restored? This momma will be kicking herself over those dirty dishes and the vacuuming and wishing she could go home and do it all.
Because that's what momma's do...