When I came home late Thursday night, I kissed my sleeping children and went to sleep myself.
Friday, I noticed that something was amiss with the oldest child. He wasn't quite himself. By afternoon, I was pretty sure, and went ahead and made him an appointment with the doctor. Who said it was just a virus and move on with your life already and quit wasting my time. Come back in ten days if he's still sick. It's just a little fever, quit worrying already.
His weekend agenda?
Saturday: He laid on the couch. Took a bath. Put himself to bed.
Sunday: He laid on the couch. Took a bath. Put himself to bed.
Monday: He laid on the couch. Took a bath. Put himself to bed.
On Monday afternoon, I talked with a friend who was recounting her husband's bout with the flu. It was eerily similar to what the oldest child was dealing with. Pretty sure if I'd have waited a day, we would have done a flu test. But I was too early. I looked in my baby's eyes and knew.
I should have asked. I should have thought of it. I should have waited?
Just like tonight, when I looked in my youngest baby's eyes and knew. Tomorrow? I'm totally asking. Because I'm so tired of sick kids.