I'm sick right now. Really, really sick. As in, I haven't felt this awful since possibly my freshman year of college. Plus, I have the grossness of morning sickness to deal with. And I have an also-sick poor little needy toddler who is absolutely done with mommy lying in bed and never doing anything fun.
Family plagues are my absolute least favorite part of parenting. I've said this for awhile, and when I'm well, I always think it can't be that bad. Then I get sick, and Peregrine gets sick, and if I'm horribly unlucky, Andrew gets sick, too, and then I remember--it really is that bad. Maybe I'll change my mind when I have to deal with epic tantrums or teenager problems, but right now, I'll hold my current stance. I hate family plagues.
I got this one in Colorado, where I flew last week with Peregrine (but not Andrew) to attend my grandpa's 90th birthday party. I'm glad I went, and the party was very special, but I could have done without the flu. It didn't help that my mom was sick, too, and we both lay around and gave Peregrine minimal attention. I literally fantasized about going to the hospital. I've never wanted to go to the hospital before, nor wanted to trade my own bed for anything, but the thought of lying there with nurses--lots of them--just taking care of me, and giving me IVs and things so I didn't have to worry about eating--it was wonderful to imagine.
I flew back to Seattle two days ago, and I seriously doubted whether I would make it. I considered postponing my flight, but I wanted my own bed so badly, and most of all, I wanted Andrew. My mom could do some things with Peregrine, but he was away from home, and cranky, and the crankier he got, the more he wanted me and only me. I just couldn't do it. So I flew home. I almost passed out going through security, from the effort it took to hoist my bag (all 5 pounds of it) onto the conveyor belt. Peregrine was squirmy and irritable on the plane, and kept asking to get down. He slept some, but not much, and I just didn't have the patience or the energy to keep him entertained. So I got out a giant bag of goldfish and gave it to him. He ate his weight in goldfish, between episodes of trying to dump the bag out and squish all the crackers for no other reason than to elicit a reaction from me. Then, about a half hour from the ground, he gave this violent heave and started throwing it all up. I saw it coming, and caught it all in his blanket, but it was so gross. My one thought, as mouthful after mouthful of half-digested goldfish came pouring into the blanket in lap, was, thank goodness I'm stopped up and can't smell anything anymore.
Fortunately, I was seated next to a really sweet mom and teenage daughter, who gave me wet wipes for Peregrine's face, helped me seal all his vomity clothes into barf bags, and then held and dressed Peregrine while I put all my stuff back together. I got off the plane without further incident, Andrew picked me up, and I went to bed and left him to deal with all the dirty clothes and blankets and Peregrine's continued vomiting throughout the day. I've been in bed ever since. My sister-in-law, saint that she is, has come and cared for Peregrine. I can't believe how weak and ill I am. I'm so ready to be done.
And I'm scared for the baby. I've spiked some pretty high fevers over the last few days. I've caught them early, and brought them down, but still, it's scary. I'm only 7 1/2 weeks along. That's a little, fragile being I've got inside me. I've been in touch with my Bellingham midwife--I don't have one yet in Seattle--and she didn't seem overly worried. Neither does Dr. Google (for once!). But I can't help but worry a bit. So if you think of me, pray for me and my tiny one. And the not-so-tiny one. And my wonderful husband, who has taken over sick-baby night duty, and is fighting this thing himself. We could all use some extra prayers.