Last week, my wife flew to Dublin for business. She left on Saturday evening and returned the following Friday. Her job wasn’t easy - she had to leave her kids for a full week (the longest yet), she had to pump about 642 times, she had to drag her jetlagged brain to meeting after meeting and be present. My job? I just had to keep everyone alive.
Before she left, my wife took my son to the doctor to have an abscess reviewed. His armpit had been clearly bothering him and had been harboring a growing thing for about a week. We had been watching it, but his demeanor hadn’t markedly changed over the week, despite the reddening underarm. But that thing became uglier and uglier. So she took him in a few hours before her departure, and the doctor recommended to wait 48 hours and review again on Monday morning. My first task had been set: take one kid to daycare on Monday morning, then bring the other to the doctor, then head into work. Seeds of anxiety began to grow, despite the seeming simplicity of that plan.
Sunday came and went, with a long, nippy walk
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