We have germs. Lots of them. Too many of them. The kind of germs that are keeping people up at night coughing, moaning, suffering. Little people are wailing through the house at midnight as they bring their suffering from their beds to mine. Feverish people act as flailing heaters in the night. First to cuddle close to their daddy and then to cuddle close to their mama. We are cuddled in such to marinate in the germs. And yet, while a part of me sighs with resignation that we'll all succumb to this virus and its mutations, I can't help but count the blessing in knowing that our kids know they are welcome to cuddle, to turn to us for comfort.
Morning comes and I have fallen to the virus. I wonder if the kids felt this poorly, and I assume they did. Although they were up for that 3 mile hike last week, which came during the onset of this round of sick. Maybe they didn't feel like death served up on a moldy trencher. The Man stays home and teaches the kids. He reads Prince Caspian. I fall asleep to his voice carrying softly down the hall to me in my sick bed. He cooks, he cleans, he takes care of us all. He is a blessing.
Three days into my own suffering. The kids are in various stages of sick still, making it past 5 days for them. The angel and the princess are both feeling better, only really suffering at night, and yesterday's low-grade fever recurrence (after being fever free for 24 hours). Voices are still weak. The Boy ignores me as I whisper-yell in a wheezing-frog voice. He's either mutated his germs for fun, or he's got something different from what the rest of us have gone through. He's cuddly even though he communicates via eardrum breaking whining. He asks for quiet music instead of TV.
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