I suspect, however, that he did not feel quite as bad as I did. I was really sick. Like, 101-degree-fever, soaking-through-the-sheets, please-just-let-me-die sick.
Baby germs are mean to adults. Mean, mean, mean. I had this confirmed on Friday by our pediatrician, who basically said that if I felt so horrible, then Henry probably gave it to me. But how did he get it? I asked. Well, New York City is a Petri dish, he responded matter-of-factly, but not without a hint of amusement.
Yum. That makes me so happy. I’m raising my son in a Petri dish. Yay! I’m personally choosing to live in a city that is a Petri dish and then, on top of that, choosing to raise my son in it. Did I mention that we live near a major highway?
But I digress.
The point is that Henry still needed his Moo Cow. 'I can't' just wasn't an option. This a-ha moment was the kind of banality that seems to pervade my life these days. I've spent most of my time on this earth obsessing over such dilemmas as how to be happy, which career I should pursue, whether I should be a writer/journalist/blogger, when we will fix health care in the U.S., and how anyone could be cruel to puppies (to name just a few). So it was somehow comforting to know the right answer without analyzing it ten ways to Sunday. I needed to take care of Henry. Full stop. So I dragged my 101-degree body around and did just that.