This past week, our household came down with the stomach flu. (Hooray!) Colin and I got it first, waking up at the exact same time in the middle of the night, turning over and telling one another, "I don't feel so good." And it was all downhill from there. We assumed, due to the severe tenacity of what hit us, that we had contracted food poisoning, but after Josie caught it twenty-four hours later we felt we had to chalk it up to some sort of nasty bug.
I won't subject you to all the gory details, and there are many, but I will say that the misery of intestinal mishap is multiplied many times over if, at the same time, you are also pressed with the responsibilty of caring for a one year old.
We are all better now, though, and have made it through relatively unscathed. We're all eating again, the house is back in (relative) order, and the laundry has been done (and done, and done, and...) Our only lasting physical testament to the whole affair lies with poor Josie, who suffered a black eye after smacking her cheekbone on the bookshelf, as Colin and I lamely lay on our relative couches, moaning in agony, unable to save her from her unsteady self. Baby's first shiner. She looks quite tough now, though, like she's a scrappy little thing. At least, this is what I tell myself over and over as we are in the grocery store and some small but insistent part of me is convinced that the woman on the cellphone in the next line over is calling Child Protective Services.
I won't subject you to all the gory details, and there are many, but I will say that the misery of intestinal mishap is multiplied many times over if, at the same time, you are also pressed with the responsibilty of caring for a one year old.
We are all better now, though, and have made it through relatively unscathed. We're all eating again, the house is back in (relative) order, and the laundry has been done (and done, and done, and...) Our only lasting physical testament to the whole affair lies with poor Josie, who suffered a black eye after smacking her cheekbone on the bookshelf, as Colin and I lamely lay on our relative couches, moaning in agony, unable to save her from her unsteady self. Baby's first shiner. She looks quite tough now, though, like she's a scrappy little thing. At least, this is what I tell myself over and over as we are in the grocery store and some small but insistent part of me is convinced that the woman on the cellphone in the next line over is calling Child Protective Services.
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