A pox on my house...

Well not exactly the pox, but this is more a be careful what you wish for kind of a post.
Today was, to me, my first official day of maternity leave. Although I finished work over a week ago, the boy was on mid term break so last week was the relaxing daytime telly fest I dreamed of.
Having been hugely pukesome ill yesterday I was looking forward to a day lounging on the sofa - in pjs -with occasional bouts of writing thrown in if I felt up to it.
This morning I woke however feeling strangely bereft. My boy was going to school. The distraction of his constant chatter and craic was going to be missing and in the absence of his sister making an appearance yet, I was going to be lonely.
Worse still I was going to have time to think about "the birth".
I do not like thinking about "the birth". It makes me very nervous and weepy because I am a yella-bellied-lily-livered chicken.
So this morning as I sent him on his way I felt so terribly sad that I had (yet another) hormonal cry.
Soon after I crawled back into bed to make up for the sleep deprivation of 24 hours of vomiting and was woken after an hour by the phone.
It was the boy's school. He had fallen and banged his head. I needed to come see him. He was okay, they reassured me. It was school policy that after any sort of knock to the head mummies and daddies need to be called.
Now in my half dozed state I replied very calmly that I was on my way and quickly changed and got into the car.
It was only on the 5 mile drive there that I started to panic. What if he wasn't okay? What if he was seriously injured? Or dead? I mean you read about these things in Take a Break magazine all the time. Sad mother one says "They told me he was fine and just to get there as soon as I could. Of course they were going to tell me he was fine so I wouldn't cause an accident by driving like a mad eejit across town weeping and wailing. When I got there he was dead."

Of course the rational part of my brain kicked in that if he had been seriously injured I would have been directed to the hospital and not the school.
And then Mrs Irrational chipped in with "unless, ya know, he is dead and there was little point in the hospital after all".

When I arrived at the school I was met with an ashen faced classroom assistant - by which stage I was almost passing out with fear. She told me he was in the classroom and as we approached I could see no sign of any boys or girls at their desks. Oh. My. God. This did not bode well.
Of course she then opened the door and he was sitting - ice pack to head - at the front of a group of kids gathered on the carpet reading about the letter i.
He did have a horrendously painful looking bruise and grazing and is now sporting a rather nifty egg. But he was very much alive and 20 minutes later was eating a bun, sat on the sofa watching cartoons with his favourite teddy.
So my bereftness at him leaving me for the day was gone - but he was there. Happy, healthy and a little bit bruised. But thankfully I've not sob story to sell to 'Take a Break'.