I sat, in my running clothes, and waited for my husband to get home for three hours yesterday. And when he did, I practically ran him over heading for the road.
I had a fairly stressful day yesterday, starting at 5:40 a.m., when I had to decide whether or not to send my sweet baby girl to school. She had some congestion and didn't feel great, but she didn't have a fever. So I sent her. That was my first mistake.
I left work around 10:30 a.m. to go to her review meeting for the speech therapy she receives at school. After the meeting, I drove right back to work, only to get a phone call from the nurse. Katie had a fever and needed to be picked up.
Then things got crazy: Ten-minute wait on the phone with the pediatrician's office which resulted in an appointment at 1:30 p.m. which meant I had an hour to drive to Kate's school, pick her up, throw some lunch in my face and get to the ped's office, about 20 minutes away.
Then there was more driving, to pick up prescriptions and more ibuprofen and nose spray and, and, and...
Stress used to lead to my eating. Eating whatever I could find -- it didn't even have to be something that I actually liked or enjoyed. I knew that with Katie sick and my failure at mothering and all the driving around I had to do that the time between when we got home and when my husband got home would be ripe for stress eating.
That's why I put on my running shorts, sports bra, shirt, socks and shoes and waited. He was a little late -- he called and everything was fine -- but as soon as he hit the door, pizza boxes in hand, I told him, "Love you. I need to run."
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