Fluke

The good news, first:

I am so pleased and relieved to announce that we are once again able to hear the entire Little Einsteins theme song, from stirring introduction to dramatic finish, on our family-room television set.

After yesterday's wailing had ceased, and after everyone's tears had dried, including mine, I sprawled onto the floor with a flashlight and double-checked every. single. cord. snaking into the cable box.

Then I yanked out the main power cord, counted to ten, plugged it in again, and said a silent prayer.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back in business. A few hours later, Trey was back from Boston. And for a while that was small, all was well.

Which brings me to, yes, the bad news.

During the night, Carter, who'd stayed home from school yesterday because, and I quote, his body told him to, spiked a fever. Couldn't really sleep. Tossed and turned and sweated and called out to people and things that weren't in the room.

In general, he scared the bejezus out of me, so I didn't really sleep, either. Just held him, when he'd let me. Administered Tylenol and Gatorade. Wiped his brow. Tried to calm him.

In an effort to calm myself sometime before sunrise, I finally called the night nurse, who said what I already knew: kids are dropping like flies all over town. It's just a virus, shouldn't last more than a day or two. Keep him hydrated and get some sleep.

Although they seemed clear-eyed and healthy, and, quite frankly, because I was too exhausted to get them dressed and out the door, Spencer and Katie stayed home from school today to hang out with their big brother.

And to enjoy, yet again, the happy rocket theme song.

Just as I started feeling foolish for keeping them home unnecessarily, and began mentally plotting an ambitious to-do list for my mupper-free hours tomorrow, I got a call from Jen.

Her kiddos had just tested positive for influenza B. And some of our other close friends and classmates weren't feeling so hot, either.

Now, even as I called the doctor's office to secure an afternoon appointment, I knew, just knew, I wasn't looking at a boy with the flu.

My bright-eyed boy, the one racing around the house on a scooter, wearing his superhero cape and firefighter hat, instructing his siblings on how best to rearrange the couch cushions to construct a spaceship? No way.

The doctor, when we saw her, was in total agreement. "I've heard this story a hundred times in the past few days," she said, smiling and nodding. "A kid's got a high fever and he's been exposed to flu. And I haven't had one positive test all week."

"I tell the parents: if your kid's head is off the table, he doesn't have the flu."

When she came back into the room to tell us that, well, actually, the test was positive, Carter was racing cars along the table. Head upright.

So now we're as fully armed as we know how to be. While we waited for our Tamiflu prescriptions to be filled, I dashed into the bookstore and grabbed a stack of parent-friendly magazines, and a few new-to-them mupper movies.

And yes, the shelves are well-stocked with Tylenol and Gatorade.

I'm sure we'll be absolutely fine. But there's a part of me that wishes I could just yank out the power code, count to ten, plug it back in, and wait for life to properly reset itself. In fifteen minutes or less.