I was never overly bothered by cold and flu season until I had a child. I caught a cold once a year maybe, and otherwise spent the dreaded time blissfully unaware that there are approximately one point five kajillion different plagues and diseases running rampant during the winter months.
My goodness, it’s like my toddler is some kind of pestilence magnet. He spent most of the last two months of last year sick with one cold or another, and then thankfully took January off from being miserable. It’s possible he realized that if he didn’t stop, his parents would make good on their threat of selling him to the gypsies.
The streak couldn’t last. Friday brought with it sore throats for the three of us, and Friday night brought with it…misery.
I spiked a fever right before bed, but am apparently dense because I didn’t recognize it for what it was for an hour or so. I just huddled in bed shivering, holding my freezing hands to my scalding face, watching Wes ping pong in and out of bed as he attended to Aidan’s demands.
My fever topped out at 100.4 degrees and finally broke at 3:30 am, after which I was finally able to sleep. To say I woke up on Saturday tired, sore, and miserable is an understatement.
Thank goodness my husband is exceptional is almost every way. We limped through that day as best we could, with Wes taking care of Aidan as I alternated between trying to choke down food and make up for lost sleep.
Sunday was a little better but more of the same. And now here we are. It’s Monday and I lament the weekend that could have been. A weekend not filled with Kleenex, sneezing, and cough drops.
It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow, and I’m having trouble mustering enthusiasm. I’m never more grateful for my husband than after we’ve been through a battle together, but I’m never more tired than when I’m sick, pregnant, and sleep deprived.
Still, my husband deserves the best. A Valentine’s Day bowl of cereal for breakfast just isn’t going to cut the mustard.
Maybe a Valentine’s Day slice of toast?