Humpty Dumpty

For the last few days, I've been walking on eggshells around this house and hoping that The Sick Child's illness might be contained. And not just hoping, mind you, but taking reasonable and measured steps, I thought, to sequester the nefarious germ. These steps have not been limited to manically washing my hands until my knuckles crack, regularly hosing the house down with Lysol, trying not to inhale quite so frequently, and fighting tooth and nail to keep S and K from licking every single thing that C puts near his mouth.

It's not been easy, but I patted myself on the back for my militant stance and felt that our collective outlook was probably pretty good.

And then last night, I cracked. Fever, aching, chills, nausea and general malaise were but the precursors to gastrointestinal woe. Up to this point, I thought I'd felt and expressed a pretty full measure of sympathy for my firstborn's state of comfort, but now I can say with empathy: you poor baby boy. Because THIS is the PITS.

No way should you have to use a gentle tone when asking that the volume on the TV be lowered; all I wanna do is whine, too. Forget what I said about sharing space with your siblings! Honey, I don't want anyone touching me, either. A popsicle for breakfast? Orange looks like it might settle my stomach for a nanosecond; which flavor do you want? Oh, sweetheart: you had an accident? Don't worry; it happens to everyone. Really. And just for the record, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do today.

Because, of course, I still do. And that sucks.

When I realized that I wasn't going to be able to get through the day without help, I called all the king's horses and all the king's men for back-up. Nevermind the fact that he's got an overflowing desk, a full agenda of meetings and calls, and deadlines that must be met before we theoretically leave town: my knight in shining armour stormed back to the castle, stopping at the drugstore and Central Market on the way with munitions for the pantry, fridge and medicine cabinet. He put me to bed, fed the muppers lunch, put them to bed, then left our quiet house and raced back to the office.

And we all lived happily ever after. Well, a lot happier, anyway. I'm wishing on the second star to the right that this bug is banished from our small kingdom posthaste...