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I spoke too soon.

I went to Urgent Care on Saturday, and the doctor looked up my nose, down my throat, and concluded that not only was I sick (which I'd sort of figured out), but that I should be in bed. She prescribed antibiotics and at least 48 hours of bed rest.

"But I have a two-year old," I said.

"Is your husband at all capable of taking care of him?" the doctor asked, in a tone that made it clear she thought this unlikely.

"Hey!" George said, when I passed on her doubts. "She doesn't even know me!"

So I got home and climbed into bed, and rested for about two minutes, at which point Sam toddled in. He took one look at me lying down, and his face screwed up in indignation. It's the expression I'd expect to see on a duchess who's caught her scullery maid napping when she's supposed to be in the kitchen peeling potatoes.

He grabbed my index finger and pulled hard, apparently planning to drag me out of the bed if necessary. Never mind that Sam takes a luxurious three-hour nap every afternoon . . . he clearly does not find it acceptable for mothers to do the same thing. Or not, at least, his mother.

Posted 10 October 2005 at 03:08 PM