Last night, Mark's back was itchy. I knew he'd gotten a mosquito bite the night before. Adam said he'd put anti-itch cream on it and took him into our bathroom.
"Come and look at this," he called.
I went hurrying in. "Does this mean we don't have to go to camp tomorrow?!?" (Oh, and is my baby OK?)
Mark's back and torso were covered in a rash. It looked like he'd had a run in with poison ivy or something. Adam covered him with cream and I gave him some Benadryl.
"Do you think we have to stay home from camp tomorrow?" I asked hopefully. Mark whimpered and said yes.
Eventually, after I'd had my celebratory we-don't-have-to-go-to-camp moment, I did show sympathy to my boy. He had sort of a miserable itchy night and you can bet I'm going to baby and pamper him today.
Because I didn't need to go to cub scout day camp today!
(I needed a break, OK?)
Here's an amazing part of the story. Last night when I told Emma, who has been going to camp and helping with the little ones, she looked distressed. "I have to go," she said, "They need me." And they really do. She's always the first one there to help and the last one to leave. She's there with the little kids waiting for their parents to check them out and I think, "Do they know she's thirteen?" But I don't think they care because they're desperate.
Adam told Emma he would take her to camp on his way to work. She was relieved. She said, "It would be really hard with only two people working in tag alongs. It's hard enough with three."
So somehow, even though I'm gleeful about slacking my duty, I managed to raise a daughter that woke herself up early and packed her own lunch and donned her camp t-shirt so she can go help.
That ought to count for something. (Yes, I'm trying to take credit for her goodness to allay any guilt I feel...)