The good news is that we made it through the weekend. The bad news is that my membership in Mother Wimps has been secured.

You don’t know about Mother Wimps? Where have you been? Obviously not at Chez Jobber, this past weekend.

Here’s the thing. Conal had a fever on Friday. I knew he was off — his nose had been running for two days and, on Friday, he was just off. He was barely eating and wouldn’t nap. I gave him Tylenol, thinking that it would help him sleep. It didn’t. At 4:30 (well after I had given up on the nap) I took his temperature. 101. Not super high, but high enough to freak me out.

He’d never had a fever before. I’d never witnessed my son being ill. It was horrible. Conal was inconsolable. When Owen got home at 6:45, Conal had been crying — more or less non-stop — for an hour and a half. I couldn’t take it. I wanted to cry. I wanted his fever to go away, for him to feel better, for his aches and pains to be relieved.

It didn’t happen.

He slept through night and was a little better on Saturday. But Saturday night? No. He woke up three times, shrieking and clutching Blue Bear. Each time I went up to console him and he was just so sad and scared. It made me terribly sad. And, I’ll admit, scared.

He woke up in a much better state on Sunday and I realized that, yes, I am a wimp. A wimpy mom who can’t handle a simple cold with a fever. Toughen up, you say? I’ll try my best.

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