Well that was a fun weekend! It's not a party until someone gets a fever of 105 and needs oxygen, you know.

Gutsy was admitted on Thursday and by Friday was doing much better. He came home Sunday afternoon and is even went outside for a little while. The doctors told us to let him dictate his level of activity and not try and suppress it. In other words, don't be a paranoid mother, Maven. Chill out. Relax. Have some coffee. Write in your blog.

They obviously don't know me very well. I'm The Maven, and I'm an alcoholics. Alcoholics are all about control. What part of pneumonia in my five-year-old was I able to control? Nothing. Not even the fever. His brain was about to turn into an omelette before we brought him in. And was I able to stay with him in the hospital? Why no. I got to stay here with a sickly Spawnling who wanted to nurse day and night. If I wasn't here he would have driven his daddy insane and I would have had pumps attached to my boobies so I wouldn't get mastitis and end up in the hospital next door; the hospital for grownups who are idiots and try to control everything.

So, control I did not. I stayed here and nursed Spawnling and played Mario Kart on the Wii with Intrepid. I ordered us deliciously meaty food we wouldn't normally get because it's expensive and not Geekster-friendly. I felt like I was cheating on my vegetarian husband. Not as naughty as actual infidelity, but close enough that it was downright... exciting. I liked it. Now I want more, but I can't have it. My carnivorous obsession will have to wait.

It would stand to reason that I should pay for my love of ripping flesh from bone. Don't all murderers eventually pay? Did that poultry not have a family? Did they not seek justice from the bottom of a KFC container somewhere, sending ghostly squawks through the cosmos in an attempt to wreak havoc upon my life?

Fear not, dead little chickens. I did pay for my enjoyment of your kin from the higher-end restaurant (The Maven does NOT eat KFC. Pukeness.) Spawnling's cold has taken a turn for the worst. I wouldn't say he has pneumonia, but I would say that it's a possibility we may be making a return trip to the hospital if he doesn't show an improvement in the next 24 hours. He's miserable, he's warm, he kept me up most of the night watching the 24hr preschool channel. Why is it that they put the worst shows on at 3AM? Don't they realize that if you're watching television with your young child at that time of night it needs to be of the highest quality? We watched a puppet raccoon named Jackson make crafts with some lady and then put on a play with said crafts.

Half an hour of watching a low-budget craft-making show with a talking rodent is enough torture; having the next show be about a castle with ballerinas in scary clown costumes brought the night down to an entirely new level.

The good news: The Spawn and I slept until about 9:30AM and I was able to drink a coffee while I had my therapy session at 11. There's nothing like venting for an hour and drinking a coffee with no kids around. My little slice of heaven. If I was rich I'd see my therapist every day. Hell, I'd move a therapist into my house so I could talk to her while I garden. Nay, while I watch my gardener. My very good looking gardener with an exotic name. Meanwhile the nanny would be playing with the kids and my husband would be throwing rose petals around the master bedroom in an attempt to pry my eyes away from the exotically-named gardener.

Ah, fantasy! You are my friend in times of need.

On a positive note that does not involve pretend hired help, Intrepid ran his first 5km race this weekend with the running team at school and thousands of their closest friends. A very sick and grumpy Spawnling made his way through the downtown crowds with me to watch a the proud boy cross the finish line. After two surgeries on his femur this year, he made the run in 47 minutes. Way to go, Intrepid! (If you look closely at the picture, he's the one in grey with the blue bandana, hands and knee up in the air. He's crazy like his mama.)