It was exactly a week ago — come to think of it, right about this time of day, too, late afternoon — when I thought to myself, “I’m tired. I’m worn out. I want a break. I deserve a break, dammit.” And then I kept thinking. I wished I had stopped thinking and left it at that, but I didn’t. I kept thinking, “I wish I got sick and could have a couple days in bed guilt free.”
Sunday night I went to bed with a tiny bit of a sore throat. Monday morning I woke up with a raw and angry sore throat and deep fatigue. I told my husband, really just kind of clutched my throat, because I had no voice, and he very kindly took the lead on getting Mary Tyler Son up and ready for school. I stayed in bed until the baby woke at 9:30. The baby never sleeps until 9:30, whose baby sleeps until 9:30, but that morning the baby slept until 9:30. Bless you, baby.
For the next four hours I did the best I could with a crawling, demanding baby and a rising fever and worsening aches and pains. I put the baby down for his afternoon nap and the fever topped 101 at that point. I texted my husband who, valiantly again, picked up the boy from school and cleared his afternoon schedule. Bless you, husband.
I didn’t leave the bed except to use the bathroom for the next two days.
I got exactly what I wished for, didn’t I?
The next time I set a wish, I need to think a bit more clearly. When I wish for a sickness bad enough to constrain me to bed for two days, I need to include that no one else in the house gets whatever plague I wish up. Silly woman.
Like clock work, just as I was able to be a bit more vertical without support, Mary Tyler Dad came down with it. For a couple of days we kept the boy home from school because he, too, had a stuffy head and we both were worried he was coming down with it, too. Seems his cold just firmly remained in the “sniffles” category, but the baby was not so lucky.
Friday night the wee little one went to bed with a slight fever. About five hours later, he started barking like a seal, crying, screaming, gasping for air. Poor honey. Saturday morning I brought him to the pediatrician first thing and he was diagnosed with croup. Five days of steroids, but most likely would remain croupy for 3-5 days.
And that’s where we’re at. Our little family of four is scratching and clawing our way through fevers and coughs and poor appetites and aches and pains and sniffles and sleeplessness and tea and soup and juices galore.
Lord, I cannot wait for this to pass.
Despite all of it, I am grateful it is just respiratory infections and not GI horseplay. That’s a whole other layer of ick I am happy to have missed. I am grateful for docs that squeeze you in despite having an overfull roster. I am grateful for steroids that help a little baby’s airway constrict. I am grateful for drive through pharmacies and donut shops. I am grateful for our caring baby sitter who was able to help us two full days this week. I am grateful for school mates who agree to have Mary Tyler Son on a playdate so the three sickest people in the family can convalesce without a bored and bouncing five year old nearby.
Even writing that made me tired.
Next time I will be much more careful about what I wish for. Oh, and I will get a flu shot, too.