Holy hurling two-year old. I need to get better at knowing what it means when a kid attached themselves to my legs, and trust that the baby’s burning skin means fever and not just that my hands are preternaturally cold.
Three hours after the first chunks of vomit hit the couch, Thing Three is chirping happily on the floor under a blanket and I’m praying, actually praying, that this is just a one-off 12-hour virus that will somehow miss the other four members of the household.
Just this afternoon my husband declared “we have plenty of time” as I was going over the substantial list of shit we have to do before we leave for a vacation to North Carolina. I said, “you know what? Let’s just pretend we don’t. Let’s go ahead and plan for all of us getting a virus, or me going into a tailspin, or some other nutty weird thing. Let’s just get the stuff done now and then relax at the end if it turns out we have extra time on the back end, ok?”
My cross to bear: being right all the time.