Sam's ill again, gone back to his mummy's, and I won't see him for a week....

Which absolutely stinks. Sarah is off to see an old friend for the weekend, so Sam won't be here for his usual Saturday night sleepover. In fact, next time I see the little superstar will be NEXT Wednesday!

I sometimes think I whinge far too much about the amount of time I spend with Sam. But that's just in comparison with other single dads I know, who seem happy with their lot, despite seeing less of their kids than I do of mine. This upcoming week without seeing Sam was agreed between me and Sarah. In England, the guideline for access is "every other weekend, plus half the school holidays". Me and Sarah agree that at his age Sam isn't quite ready to be away from mummy for more than one night at a time, so instead of spending the whole weekend with me, every other weekend, he is here one full day every weekend. Same amount of time, spread out more. He's not at school yet so we make arrangements about extra days with daddy when each holiday period rolls around. And, in addition, two nights every week I pick Sam up from nursery, for his tea and bathtime here, which is an extra six hours a week. So what am I moaning about, and why do I STILL feel short-changed? Maybe it's just me feeling annoyed about missing out on so much of Sam's life, who knows.

Sam was here from nine-ish yesterday morning until half past six tonight. We had a pretty good time too until his virus got a hold of him again this afternoon. We'd been to Baker's Oven as a treat, and stopped off for an hour in the park on the way home. Sam seemed fine, but fell asleep watching The Tweenies soon after we got home. He slept for ninety minutes, then woke up coughing - and a check of his temperature gave a reading of 39.8, extremely high. Right away I gave him some Calprofen to try to start reducing the fever, whipped off all his clothes except his pants, and started offering him juice after every cough (thankfully he kept taking it too, what a good boy). And so the afternoon went on in that fashion, checking temperature every ten minutes, giving Sam cold juice, cuddling him when he wanted it, leaving him alone when he didn't. We were due back at Sarah's at six today, but she called to say she had to take one of her cats to the vet, and could I possibly keep Sam til half past. Could I!? Always a daft question. Also had a phone call from someone close who is going through a really bad spell at the moment, and at the same time Sam kept calling for me, so I felt bad when the "other" person said they'd ring back tomorrow.

Well, the ibuprofen slowly worked on Sam's temp, and it was down to just over 38 by the time we had to leave. Still high but nowhere near as bad. Sam himself was also intermittently a lot livelier, in between coughing bouts and yelling in pain because his throat was sore from the coughing. Kept checking if he could move his head and neck without pain (yes), if there was any rash anywhere (no), did his hands or feet hurt (no), just in case the nightmare of meningitis was a possibility. Apparently not, thank gods.

And then the crappy moment when the end credits on The Simpsons appear and I have to say "Shoes on Sam". He knows what it means, I know it, and it's never nice, but tonight I just felt almost distraught. Taking my obviously poorly little star back after nearly 36 hours together, the worst thing in the world. Sam asked to listen to Same Jeans on the CD, which we did, and then when we arrived there he didn't even want to turn off all the bits and pieces in the car, which is ALWAYS one of his favourite little habits. Just about stopped myself blubbing in front of Sam when I left.

Didn't manage to stop myself when I got back home and saw all his stuff, half eaten biscuit, jumper he chose himself, picture he painted yesterday, his little gloves laid on top of my big ones on a radiator ("it will keep them all warm daddy!"). Horrible.

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Sam's ill again, gone back to his mummy's, and I won't see him for a week....

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