Here’s a riddle for you: You have three birthdays to celebrate on the same day. Your father is turning 65, your twin sisters-in-law are celebrating their 30th birthday and your husband’s best friend, whom you don’t see very often, is also having a birthday. All three have invited you to partake in birthday celebrations on the same Saturday night. Which do you attend?
Answer: None, because your 20-month-old son brings home a nasty case of the stomach flu from daycare which literally brings the entire family to its knees, praying to the porcelain gods for mercy from 24 hours of hell.
That, in a nutshell, was a recent weekend. I have never been so sick in my life. I can say that with complete certainty. How are two sick parents supposed to care for a sick child when they can hardly care for themselves? And we only have one kid! Thank goodness my mother-in-law was brave enough to come over and watch him while we were ailing. As I lay in my bed in a semi-conscious and very dehydrated state, I kept praying that her immune system was tougher than ours (it was).
I love my son’s daycare, I really do. It’s a wonderful place and he loves it there. He loves his educator and his friends. It’s clean and a great learning environment and they take good care of the children. But no daycare is immune to the viruses transmitted by pre-schoolers. And apparently, neither am I. I have hardly been healthy for the past 2 months. And I think I might have only slept through the night twice in that amount of time. The only reason for that is because I was physically away from my son for those nights.
I know this vicious cycle has just begun. I’m told by many people that I am looking at a minimum of six months before we can start to regain our health. So we’re in the thick of it. I have just entered the dark tunnel and am nowhere near the light at the end of it.
I am seriously thinking about fleeing the country for a warm and sunny beach where I can park myself on a lounge chair and sleep for a week. Who’s with me?