He was just six weeks old when I trudged back to work. I left him with a woman who would later become his and Daughter's "real" mother. I lucked out on that score.
Why only six weeks with him? Because I went to work for a company when I was nearly five months pregnant, so I didn't score the three month's maternity leave. But why not eight weeks of disability due all 'Murica mothers when they have a C-section? Because I promised I'd be back after six. And it was Christmas time, and my new colleagues had plans.
So back I went. And, within days, he caught a cold. So young with those symptoms, that the nurse advised bringing him in to make sure it wasn't something else. And it wasn't something else. It was just a cold. But that doesn't mean I didn't sick-out the next two days to stay home with the most precious cargo I've ever carried.
Tomorrow, that 17-year-old strapping Eldest of mine gets his wisdom teeth pulled. We're all prepared with pills and soft foods and murmurings of encouragement. He'll be fine.
But I'll be there. He won't know I'm there, really. But I will.
There is no point to this post beyond the fact that be him aged six weeks or 17 years of, FSM-willing, 26 years, I will be there.