Bed rest was going pretty well. Then Megan came home with a fever. Then it became a raging 103.8 fever. Then she started throwing up. We thought it was just Motrin hitting her empty stomach, but we learned otherwise when Christopher fed her the taco soup that a friend had brought us for dinner. It was a rough day, and a worse night. It was rough for Christopher, because he was responsible for sick kids and a bedridden wife. It was rough for Brieanne, because she was helping him clean up the puke. And it was rough for me, because I wasn’t able to take care of my kid the way I wanted to. And she was so miserable. And I kind of wigged out, and yelled at Christopher for not following my instructions explicitly, and made him feel bad, and yeah, it was rough. But later when I apologized, he was actually nice to me. I said, “Sorry, sweetie, for my impression of The Exorcist.” And he said, “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one.” Ah, marital bliss.
Twenty-four hours later, Gavin has a fever, too. But at least now we have the house stocked with Gatorade, Sprite, chicken broth, Jell-O, popsicles, and Rapid Melt Tylenol. So maybe we’ll survive. If I start puking, I’m checking myself into labor and delivery for a bag of lactated ringers.