At the time I am writing this, I’m sitting in a Starbucks, free from the clutches of kids who have been nonstop sick since New Years. No one has sneezed in my open mouth in thirty minutes, and I haven’t had to wipe anyone else’s nose since I got here.
It’s really nice.
When I left Wes, he was wrestling our daughter into a clean diaper for the second time in an hour, and also getting her a new outfit because she managed to smear unspeakable filth all over her first outfit of the day. My son was sniffling, coughing, and demanding cuddles on the couch, and the sink was full of dishes from the cupcakes I baked with our son this morning.
I offered to stay and help, and Wes flung out his arm to stop me, saying, “Get out of here.” His tone and posture seemed to convey, “Save yourself. There’s still a chance for you!” I felt a little like I was leaving him as a sacrifice for tiny, pestilent little zombies so I could make a clean escape.
And oh, how I did. I’m drinking a beverage I didn’t have to make. Listening to music that would not interest my children at all. Typing out words and no one is interrupting me to ask me a question, or asking me wipe something, or destroying something I’m responsible for keeping clean.
Saturday afternoons on my own are always wonderful, restful, and exactly what I need.
Today, though? After a month of nonstop whiny, clingy children?