Pardon the alliteration, but nothing ever goes as planned, and the p-p-p seems just right.
Puerto Rico’s Gran Melia resort awaits me (just two days ‘til lift off), and my son’s struck ill. What’s worst, I think it’s my fault.
Breakfast was lovely on Saturday: pork links and eggs over easy, toast on the side. But I thought that the pork didn’t smell entirely up to snuff, and sure enough, when I tasted it, I spit it out immediately. Unfortunately, my youngest son had already gobbled two links. In fact, I asked, “honey, does that taste okay?” “Yeah, it’s gooood.”
Yikes. Poor kid.
He gets up from the couch and loses it all over the floor. Just as soon as he thinks he’s got a saltine down…nope. He’s been sipping Pedialyte and looking like something a bit undercooked himself—pink circles around his eyes and the posture of a ninety-year-old, huddled in from the chills of a low-grade fever that won’t desist.
On one hand, all I can think is, well, I’m not leaving the country if he’s not better.
On the other, I think, why do these things always happen?
Then I feel so torn I can’t decide if I’m horrible or not. Certainly there’s the mothering part of me that says, no way, and then the Lisa part of me that says, but, this was my time…wait, Puerto Rico…don’t go!
Ay. I want him to get better so he feels better. I want him to get better so he can have a nice time visiting family. I want him to get better so I can go and hear little more than waves and rain and waterfalls and whatever else one hears in PR.
Selfish and nurturing and completely conflicted on all fronts.
Stupid pork. And by pork, of course, I mean, me.
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