Here I was, on the verge of the greatest announcement of the year (and no, it doesn't have anything to do with new babies), and it all went crumbling under.
I was so proud, so elated, so relieved that this entire winter our entire family survived without getting sick even once.
And then my husband had to go and ruin it for me.
How he came about the nasty cold that he has is a mystery to me. After all, I am the one who works in a hospital, and have been surrounded with kids sick with every bug under the sun since December. He, on the other hand, works in an office with roughly 10 other people, none of whom, to my knowledge, are under contact or airborne precautions. And yet he is the one sounding like an 80 year old elephant with a defective trunk.
It never seizes to amaze me how even slightest presence of an illness kicks your whole life right out of its equilibrium. There is just that feeling that something is not right, the house is messier (and not just because it is littered with tissues), everyone is in need of a shower, a hug, and a cup of something steamy.
Even though I still don't have the symptoms, and Joseph has only exhibited a mild variation of what his daddy has, it is as if the entire house, walls and kitchen cabinets included, is suffering.
I don't like this feeling.
We are trying to power through the runny noses and coughing, employing everything from nose drops to throat syrups, from teas to honeys, which are all excellent helpers with just one major drawback: they taste nothing like bacon or green chile, and thus have to be mostly forced on our daddy and husband.
I hope it passes soon, so we could return to normal sequence of sleeping and waking hours, venture outside on some big or small adventure, and get the stench of dayquil out of our clothes.
Meanwhile, I am off to make some tea and cozy up under a blanket with my sickies.
Don't sneeze, everyone.