In what can only be described as a month that ushered in the seven plagues of the Apocalypse, I thought we finally turned a corner. Between rotavirus, the flu and strep, surely things had to improve. I had gone through twelve loads of sick laundry, ten bottles of spray bleach and six cases of Pedialyte. I am also convinced we may have killed a partridge in a pear tree.
The madness had to end.
As I strolled up and down the grocery aisles yesterday, things took a turn. Dizziness. A tight cough. Chills.
My colloidal silver had failed me.
Mom was down.
By the time I returned home, I was grateful to simply crawl into bed with some Ibuprofen and a warm comforter. That’s when a wondrous notion occurred to me: Life is awesome.
A few short years ago, I would have been sick AND responsible for changing diapers, cutting up food, wiping down high chairs and preparing bottles of formula.
I put Danny in charge of the masses, pointed everyone to the cereal in the pantry and passed out. My kids actually checked on ME a few times, bringing up Sprite and a vomit bucket.
If that ain’t love, I don’t know what is.
Recently, I found myself feeling a bit melancholy as I flipped through pictures of my long-ago babies. It seemed they were small for but a blink. I thought I wanted to go back and soak up those chubby cheeks and tiny toes for just a while longer.
But after yesterday?
BRING ON THE AUTONOMY, BOYS.
With each new phase and each passing year, there is just more to celebrate. My kids are becoming really interesting people. They are funny and smart. They also bring me throw-up buckets.
Forget the toddler stage.
I’ll take now. Along with some Tamiflu if you got any.