Smite

I am renaming our residence the Morgan Street Sanitarium.  Not only have we met our family quota of colds and flu for this season, I believe we have exceeded it.  I’m not sure, but we might have filled the quota for our entire block.  The neighborhood can thank me later.

To date, we have two confirmed cases of pneumonia, one ear infection, and one case of bronchitis.  The rest of the hackers remain undiagnosed.  My children sound like I keep them on a steady diet of cigarettes and strong coffee.

I keep wondering how this is possible.  I have a dehumidifier running nonstop in the basement, a nighttime humidifier chugging away in the boys’ room, an ample supply of disinfecting wipes, and a nebulizer that is getting more action than my Mr. Coffee coffeepot.  Never mind I was diligent enough to get all under the age of sixteen their annual flu shots!  If I wasn’t such a good Catholic (tongue in cheek), I’d swear God is sitting at his computer, finger hovering over the smite key.

Last week, while John was in Maryland, I had the pleasure of tending five children, one smelly dog, and my job, all while under the influence of an unending fever.  What can I say, as far as treatment of each, you get what you pay for.  The kids survived on take-out, the dog lived mostly in the basement, and I ministered to my job at the library on an every-other-day basis. 

By evening, the best of me was spent.  Max, even though ear infected and wheezing, couldn’t be persuaded to stay in his bed.  During his self-administered extended bedtime, he was able to locate Sam’s secret Halloween stash.  He is now sporting an impressive bald spot where I had to yank a flattened Tootsie Roll from his hair. 

Candy or not, I thank God for Sam.  That sweet kid would roll off my bed every five minutes or so to reroute Max or enthusiastically wallop Kenny back into his bunk.  Without him, I would have had to lie in the middle of their bedroom floor and only hope that if it came down to it, they would feed off my dead corpse.

During my time riding the couch, Moxie took it upon her canine self to watch over me.  Her efforts to console in the form of licks and scents yielded her quick thumps on the snout,

“Quit it!”  I’d croak.  “I’m not dead yet.”

Two weeks later, I’d like to say we’re through the worst, but I’m not convinced.  I’ve had enough nursing school to be able to envision the worst, but not enough to be at all helpful.  I know that someday this will pass.  It must. We’re getting pretty close to our annual bout of the stomach virus and we need to be in top form for that.