Last Monday started like any other Monday except the boys were being unruly. More unruly than usual, anyway. This was the beginning of a very long week that I almost couldn’t handle. We were about to go viral. With an intestinal virus. Here is how it all went down…

So I hear them from the kitchen where I’m making breakfast. Yelling. Fighting.



I peek around the corner and discover them using a xylophone mallet and a maraca to hit each other. Because this is what xylophone mallets and maracas are used for when they are being unruly. As clubs.

So I respond the usual way that I do when I catch them using musical instruments as weapons.



What is their deal? I’m getting grumpy. The week is not starting well. Why are they being so crazy? How am I going to handle a full week like this?

And then, several hours later, I see what their deal is.



They are getting sick.

No matter what the virus is, my older son gets a stomach ache and my younger son gets a runny nose. I never know what it is going to morph into. This is the fun part. The waiting game.

And now my mama guilt is in full force for thinking they were acting like little jerks earlier. For not seeing what was really going on. The poor babies are sick!



The nurturing super mama has taken over now.

I’ll do anything for them.



And I’m optimistic. I truly believe that if we just have a mellow day full of cuddles and reading and soup that they will get better before they get worse.

Just a quick 24 hour bug. I can handle this.

It seems to be going well. They don’t seem to be getting worse.

Until the sun goes down.



Nighttime brings out the worst. Always. I dread the nighttime when they are sick.

But I can handle this. I clean it up and comfort him.



I’m in the livingroom walking the baby back and forth. My eldest is asleep on the couch, wanting to be near me. All is quiet and I think we have seen the worst of it.

And then this happens:



And continues to happen. All night.

Nobody sleeps. My husband is in the background, mostly on clean up duty. And thermometer duty. And getting them to drink water duty. He sleeps in between.

Puking. Pooping. Sometimes alternating. Sometimes at the same time.

More puking.

More pooping.

More forcing them to drink water. Temperature taking. Carrying. Walking.

Finally, the sun rises. All is calm. We are laying on the floor, flanked by a roll of paper towels and a puke bucket.



I feel a great sense of relief with the presence of the sun. I know the worst is behind us.

This time, I’m right. They remain terribly ill and grumpy and clingy but the pukefest is mostly over. We lay low all day. They even mostly sleep through the night! Mostly.

Now Wednesday is here and things are looking even better!

Oh, except for me. Once the kids are better I suddenly remember that I too exist on the physical plane and I realize that, wow, I’m super sick. I was so busy tending them that I didn’t even notice that my temperature is 104.

Now I am the type of sick person that would prefer to hide under the covers and sweat it out. Alone. If I were an injured wolf, I’d go off and die alone in the woods. Alone. Alone is the key element here. Alone is what I need to get well. Alone isn’t going to happen.

But I can handle this. I can.

They sense my desire to be alone which makes them cling even more.

But my husband will help.



Only they don’t want him. They want Mama. Only Mama. They still aren’t 100% themselves and are in that “I was just sick so now I’m super clingy and whiny” stage of getting better.

Finally he lures them away from me with promises of playing Candy Land.

Game in progress I retreat to my bed.



This is the first time I’ve wished for a never-ending game of Candy Land.

I don’t get my wish.



They are back. Want to cuddle with me.

The baby wants to nurse. He is still not feeling well. I get it. But I may have to puke or run to the bathroom with explosive diarrhea. Again. So having him attached to my nipple does not feel safe right now. Or convenient. I’m feverish and delirious so imagine that he is draining life out of me.

I just really want to be alone.

But I can handle this.

Husband manages to pry them from me again and this time I get smart and lock the door.

Only they do not like this.



I realize that this might actually be worse than letting them in.

When all is said and done I think I got about an hour total of quiet alone time. Which is pretty good.

Over the next couple days I slowly start to get better.



The boys are back to their highly energetic selves and I try to keep up even though I can barely stand up.

I can handle this though. I can. We are almost in the clear now.

At last, I too am back to myself.



The weekend arrives and with it, health! We are ready for a fun, family-filled weekend. Nobody is sick so we can actually go places! The sun is shining! Yay!

And then…



He gets sick. On the weekend. How very conveinent for him. I try not to be bitter. He really doesn’t have control over the timing. At least I don’t think he does.

So he proceeds to spend an entire day in bed. Alone.

Moaning.



The kids are healthy and stir-crazy so I take them out of the house. All is quiet and peaceful for him. How nice.

And then he proceeds to spend a second day in bed. Alone.

At some point, as usual, he thinks he is dying.



And so I respond the way I always do.

We’ve been down this road before. I can handle this.



I tell him matter-of-factly that he is not dying. He just has the flu.

The same flu, I remind him, that I had while taking care of the kids all week.

This is where he is supposed to have an epiphany of how amazing I am and what a hard week it has been for me and why I’m ever so slightly annoyed and jealous that he has been in bed for two days.

Only he doesn’t.

Instead, he says something that is so completely the opposite of what I was expecting that I’m stunned at first.



He tells me he must have a stronger, mutated version of the virus. Because there is no way I’d be able to have taken care of the kids if I felt even close to how he feels.

I don’t even know what to say at first.



And then I know exactly what to say.

So jokingly, I agree with him and tell him that indeed, he must have a mutated version and that he will surely die.

I laugh to myself while I get him water and some hot soup, knowing that he just wrote the ending to my next cartoon.

See? I can handle this.

————-

PS – he was totally fine this morning. We’re all better now!

PPS – if you liked this, then you’ll definitely, probably like my book:

Parenting: Illustrated with Crappy Pictures the BOOK!