My son was on his second book of the bedtime routine when I noticed his cheeks looked really red. I took his temperature and sure enough, he was running a slight fever. The past year at home meant there was nary a sniffle in our household, and although I was used to catering to a sick baby, I immediately began to panic.

Just a month ago, my freshly vaccinated husband and I reenrolled our son into daycare after what felt like a year of climbing uphill with a two-ton weight strapped to our backs. For the first time in a year, I felt real hope. We ate out! We had a playdate! We saw someone other than ourselves! We were settling into our new routine, and our kid was thriving.

But then the B117 COVID-19 variant made its way to US shores, and it all started falling apart for us.

After a year of being apart from some of my closest friends, we were finally ready to get the kids together for a playdate.

I’ve known these women for over two decades at this point. Whole babies were born during this time that I hadn’t met yet. I. Was. Pumped.

But then one of the girls in our group sent info around about the B117 variant, a wave of the coronavirus that particularly affects children. More and more young kids were being hospitalized, and some were having severe side effects. After a bit of chatting, we decided it might be best to skip the indoor playdate, but my wheels began spinning. What does this really mean for our “daycare kid?”

I talked it over with my husband, and we agreed to keep him put in daycare, for now, was the best for us and we’d watch the numbers.

If I’m being honest with myself, it was a largely selfish decision.

I can admit that the thought of “going back” soured my stomach. He was finally thriving there, getting used to other kids. And my husband and I were breathing. I wasn’t logging on to do makeup work post-kiddo bedtime. I had time to read a book or paint or even just mindlessly stare at the TV. I wasn’t ready for that to end, despite knowing I could technically do it.

Because honestly, for a year and change, I am confident that I did everything I could to protect my family to get to this point again. And here it is, all being taken away.

My son’s slight fever that evening turned into an all-night crying fest (on both our parts).

Though his temperature didn’t rise beyond 100 degrees, he spent the night waking every hour on the hour moaning. I slept on the floor by his crib, feeling guilt sink deep into the marrow of my bones. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was my fault for sending him to daycare and that now my little family could potentially pay a high and scary price for that mistake.

When we got to the other side of the night, he seemed perfectly himself and mostly fine. A rapid and long test later revealed he did not have the coronavirus but a common, normal daycare cold.

That’s when my maternal guilt morphed into rage-filled guilt.

Although I was of course thankful he was ultimately going to be fine, I felt this burning rage at the world for this. I was mad that I couldn’t just treat a cold in stride without worrying it was a deadly pandemic-related disease. I was mad at myself for possibly endangering him.

I was (and honestly still am) mad at the officials who have done NOTHING to support working mothers so we don’t have to make these kinds of decisions.

And after hours of texting friends for advice, reading reports online, wallowing, worrying, and more, we decided to keep him home while this variant rips through our country until more community members are vaccinated.

The truth is, there are no good decisions in this mess. None. Every option is complete and utter crap.

Having him home while I and my husband juggle working full-time jobs is mentally, emotionally, and physically taxing. It also took its toll on our son, who is incredibly clingy. Getting him back into daycare, he was thriving. Having to pull him meant putting a stop to that growth, and it’s not fair to him.

But every day we kept him there, despite the amazing efforts the staff went to in order to keep him and his peers safe, we put him at risk. A rock and a hard place don’t even begin to describe it.

I don’t know if I’m making the right call.

Perhaps I am overreacting? Maybe I was a fool for throwing him back into daycare so soon? I don’t know, because someone loses no matter what we decide.

I do know that I am doing the best I can with the choices I make for my own family. My choices might be a no-go for another family, and that’s OK. So long as we are doing what is best for our own without harming others, there is nothing more we can do. There is no playbook to follow here and very, very little outside help.

Take solace in the fact that you have gotten your family this far, and try to do the best you can. It’s all we can do.