Haven’t had a marathon sick-fest in a few years. Sure, people get colds, fevers, broken arms, lice. But not the current, virulent scourge my little snotty family has withstood for the good part of a month.
First the ladies busted out with twinsie fevers after running around a little too long in one of the hundreds of snowstorms that have dumped on the Mid-Atlantic this year, then Mimi went on to a week of on and off fevers coupled with chest cold, nighttime hacking, antibiotic delirium, a rare ear infection and the beginnings of pink eye. Then husband got a very nasty bronchitis that has dragged on for at least five weeks and lots of weird medication. Then I got an unsavory sinus and ear infection coupled with, yes, pink eye. Antibiotics have actually helped me over what was a never ending situation. And then, of course, Beenie was like a 102 degree zombie when I picked her and Mimi up from school yesterday. Home again home again, jiggity jig.
I’m reminded of the bad old days of non-stop coughing, angry infants who would not, could not sleep a wink. Which meant I didn’t get to sleep either, which in the olden days didn’t matter as much as it does now — now that I am supposed to appear to be a coherent person at my job. I can’t imagine how horrible going back to work after having the girls would have been. I would have been such a useless employee. I don’t know how single parents do it, goddess bless them.
A cavalcade of illness like this, dancing from one unwitting host to the next under the same roof, causes a shift in normal operations. I am the mobile device, nighttime checker of fevers and deliverer of liquids and liquid cough and fever remedies if need be. I check regularly to make sure the children are alive. I assume the husband is alive if he’s made it this far. As for myself, I believe I am still alive, though a variable volumed left ear sometimes causes me to wonder if I’m floating in a nocturnal plane. I am, actually. I set up a small pull out futon in the office, which during these times of duress I refer to as the European hotel room. Jokingly refer, with some wistful sense of lost youth, because I did get to stay in small European hotel rooms when I was young and unencumbered by things like other people’s health. I like my single lady’s servants quarters. I stay up extra late on the computer even though it makes waking up the next morning terrible. But you know what? I don’t give a shit.
Finished a new, small map. It took a ridiculous amount of time to complete, but I kinda like it.
Mmmmm. Maps and naps and late nights working on self projects not others’ projects.
And single youth in which nobody puked at 1am; or if they did, you didn’t have to clean it up.