So, Chad is a deacon at our church. And this weekend is the deacon's retreat. It's the third we've been able to go to, but only the first that I was actually excited about since I wasn't going to be heaving with first-trimester sickness or toting a baby around. My parents were going to come here and watch our kids and my brother's kids.
And I was very excited. Excited to spend a night away with Chad and to connect with the other wives. I was so excited that I packed my bags several days ago. I never do that.
Then last night, Tate threw up. Twice. And he had a fever.
I knew right then that I would be staying home this weekend. And I was bummed. Very bummed. And I was sad for my baby. He was feeling so rotten and there wasn't anything I could do about it except rock him, which he wasn't too fond of.
I believe that God has a plan for everything (yes, even seemingly unimportant weekend disruptions) and there must've been some reason why I wasn't supposed to go this weekend. Maybe I would've caused us to get into an accident on the drive up. Maybe I would've said something stupid to cause an all-out, hair-pulling, face-slapping deacon's wife brawl. Probably not... considering these are very classy, respectable, Godly ladies of course... but you never know. That would be pretty exciting.
Or maybe Tate just needed his mommy this weekend.
So, here we are. Just Tate and me. The girls have gone to their cousins' house with my parents. And I'm trying to figure out how to get Tate to settle down. He still has a fever, but at least he's not throwing up. I've already put him to bed, because he's obviously tired, but yet he doesn't want to sleep. I'm just praying that tonight goes smoothly.
And even if it doesn't, I guess I'll just have to put my big girl panties on and deal with it.