What day is it? Where am I? What's going on, and have I missed anything?
A stomach flu hit our home exactly one week ago. It started with the baby of the family, moved to her twin sister by Thursday, hit my husband on Friday morning, then knocked out my 11-year-old daughter on Saturday. By Sunday, everyone was weak and exhausted, but feeling better. I used the reprieve from my duties of wiping up vomit and distributing Tylenol and popsicles to my aching, dehydrated patients to engage in the more typical household chores of cleaning and organizing the kitchen, scouring the toilets, and finishing the laundry. I'm not stupid. I knew the flu bug would hit me with a vengeance, and it did at 3:30 in the morning.
Because of Mother's Foresight, my family was able to make it through Monday without me. The kitchen was stocked, clothes were folded and put away, and the girls' backpacks were packed and ready for school. I slept the day away, with a break here and there to run into my clean bathroom and kneel at the porcelain throne.
The only member to emerge unscathed from the past week is my 9-year-old daughter. Don't ask me how she resisted the germ-infested environment that is our house, because her skeletal frame doesn't carry a single extra ounce of fat that would help cushion her from the effects of a 24-hour flu bug. She's a skinny drama queen who would have loved for nothing better than to be rushed via ambulance to the hospital for a treatment of IV fluids and antibiotics.
My husband thinks all the sugar she's been consuming on a daily basis since Halloween has somehow protected her.
Dinner last night: popsicles, Tylenol