Last day of the month. Love month is almost over and this post almost didn’t make it. When a family of six gets sick, it is pretty much game over.
I have plans. Big plans. The week started with a list of demands that has me wondering if I am, once again, “just trying to get by” at too many jobs. But isn’t that what motherhood, or just adulthood, is? I sat on my bed, my to-do list physically sprinkled about my cross folded legs. This is how I work best, sitting on my bed with everything laid out in front of me. My slippers slide my running shoes under the bed and cuddled onto my feet in silent encouragement that it was ok to skip my run today. My stomach dipped. I instinctively knew to lie down, slowly pulling my legs closer and closer into my chest. Suddenly I was nestled deep in my to-do list and I wanted to sleep. My stomach quivered in the way that is usually reserved for anxiety. Great, I have overwhelmed my self to sleep like a scary lullaby – a rocky –a- bye baby for the modern world. But it wasn’t anxiety. Fuck. I realized. It was nausea. I don’t have time to get sick. I cursed. Josh was home to work to check on me shortly after. I got the nap blessing and the “take all the time you need” reassurance to my health. I knew it was short lived, Layla, Jackson and Cece had been infected, and it was only a matter of time before we turned to puke zombies and healthy babies outnumbered healthy adults. I tried to force sleep but my stomach taunted me to stay awake. Just say it. It would say. No. No. I pleaded, desperate for sleep. Say it! Fine. I want to throw up. Please, I just want to throw up. My wish was granted. Infected count: 4-2.