Baby Henry has some sort of congestion-turned-mild-infection. Our pediatrician, who’s very firmly in the non-medicated, holistic camp of healthcare, has prescribed antibiotics. This is a problem, but not for the reason you think.

While I am not pro-antibiotics, I’m not necessarily anti-antibiotics. I think they should be used judiciously and wisely, as I know our pediatrician is in this case. I trust him, and I know he’s doing right by my son. Also, I know that Baby Henry is going to be just fine. He’s a strong boy, and his father is taking excellent care of him.

But this is a problem because it’s entirely possible that if I were home to take care of Baby Henry full-time, we would have been able to combat the congestion before it turned into an infection. But where am I? I am at work, twiddling my (gd) thumbs. Staring out the window. Attempting to correspond with colleagues. Failing. Clacking away on my keyboard, this blog as my only outlet.

I wrote last week of the delayed-release of my guilt hormones upon returning to work. This recent frustration does not bode well for my longevity as a working mother…

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