There have been several interesting conversations around my house today regarding being sick. My 3-year-old is the one afflicted with the middle-of-the-night onset of an intestinal virus the likes of which we haven’t seen since, well, EVER. I can only hope that it’s one of those things that only she must endure. I don’t care to see it repeated. Fortunately the Puke Fest has ceased, but she is still feverish and lethargic.
Yeah, you don’t want to come within a mile of MY house today. I feel sorry for the neighbors who oh-so-innocently joined me for pizza last night. They are okay so far, but they may not be out of the woods yet.
So far we are all holding up, but admittedly my stomach doesn’t feel quite right, and I’m not sure if it’s just the power of suggestion or if I’m fighting it off.
Earlier in the day, as I was sitting on the couch, holding her sickly sister limp in my arms, my 6-year-old looked at me and said, “Why are YOU allowed to touch her?”
At least I know my don’t-touch/don’t -kiss/and-for-the-sake-of-all-that’s-contagious-don’t-share-food-or-drinks-with-your-sister-today talks got through to her.
I explained that I’m the mommy and I have to take care of my sick babies because no one else is knocking down the door for the chance to do it. And just when I was thinking how considerate it was that she was thinking of my misfortune, she continued, “But if you get sick, I might get it.”
Well, yes, I suppose that’s possible. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about ME, though.
And on the topic of sick, in one of my 3-year-old’s few lucid moments today, she informed me that:
“I don’t like sicks. Sicks is bad.”
I wholeheartedly agree.