Someone in our house has been sick since Christmas. At first it was me, for about three weeks. When I started experiencing severe positional vertigo, perhaps brought on by the weeks of severe congestion, I finally sought medical attention. I had about a week of relief before I got some other kind of upper respiratory nastiness. Then our kids got a series of viruses spanning almost a month.
Aside from my pregnancy, and the usual annual visits, I don’t think any of us saw a doctor of any kind at all in 2012. But in the first week of February, I visited our new pediatrician’s office three times, and our family has frequented our local urgent care on four occasions.
Those three weeks from January into February were the worst. Daniel traveled most of the time, and there was a 10-day period when I think I left the house only twice. We were quarantined, sick, cranky, lonely and running low on supplies. One morning when I was letting the kids make a mess in our garden tub—because, really, what else were we going to do? – another mom from Mirabella’s preschool class called, frantic. She’d been cooped up for two weeks, both she and her little one sick, and wanted to compare notes. I wished we could have had a sickie play date just to get out of the house.
We finally got (mostly) well, when Daniel came down with a sinus infection. Last Friday while I was in Indiana with my college girlfriends, he texted me: “Where’s the thermometer?”
“You don’t have a fever,” I replied, as he sometimes has a low tolerance for sickness.
“99.5,” he shot back.
“Did you take it under your arm?” I teased.
“Yes.”
At this point, the girls and I were snickering. “That’s for the kids. Take it under your tongue.”
“Still 99.5,” he said, “and now you just made me lick my armpit. Thanks for that.”
As our weekend went on, with burgers and beer, a tasting at a winery, delicious farm-to-table and scratch-made lunch and brunch, so much talking I lost my voice, and two hours spent wandering in a discount book store, Daniel’s weekend was spent on the couch. Mirabella had made a list of fun things to do on “Daddy Weekend,” most of which went undone. Nearly a week later, he is still on the couch with bronchitis and pneumonia and an allergic reaction to his medication.
So our new year has mostly revolved around ailing, caring and complaining.
Now, after a whirlwind couple of days, I’m about to start my first consulting gig since our move. I’m excited to contribute, to venture out, to go back, and to grow. It’s not terribly unlike the work I’ve done before, except I have no idea how to juggle it all within the confines of my new life. I’m praying for fair winds and a following sea, flexible and forgiving children, and help I haven’t yet found. And, of course, a kibosh on the sickness already.
Aside from my pregnancy, and the usual annual visits, I don’t think any of us saw a doctor of any kind at all in 2012. But in the first week of February, I visited our new pediatrician’s office three times, and our family has frequented our local urgent care on four occasions.
Those three weeks from January into February were the worst. Daniel traveled most of the time, and there was a 10-day period when I think I left the house only twice. We were quarantined, sick, cranky, lonely and running low on supplies. One morning when I was letting the kids make a mess in our garden tub—because, really, what else were we going to do? – another mom from Mirabella’s preschool class called, frantic. She’d been cooped up for two weeks, both she and her little one sick, and wanted to compare notes. I wished we could have had a sickie play date just to get out of the house.
We finally got (mostly) well, when Daniel came down with a sinus infection. Last Friday while I was in Indiana with my college girlfriends, he texted me: “Where’s the thermometer?”
“You don’t have a fever,” I replied, as he sometimes has a low tolerance for sickness.
“99.5,” he shot back.
“Did you take it under your arm?” I teased.
“Yes.”
At this point, the girls and I were snickering. “That’s for the kids. Take it under your tongue.”
“Still 99.5,” he said, “and now you just made me lick my armpit. Thanks for that.”
As our weekend went on, with burgers and beer, a tasting at a winery, delicious farm-to-table and scratch-made lunch and brunch, so much talking I lost my voice, and two hours spent wandering in a discount book store, Daniel’s weekend was spent on the couch. Mirabella had made a list of fun things to do on “Daddy Weekend,” most of which went undone. Nearly a week later, he is still on the couch with bronchitis and pneumonia and an allergic reaction to his medication.
So our new year has mostly revolved around ailing, caring and complaining.
Now, after a whirlwind couple of days, I’m about to start my first consulting gig since our move. I’m excited to contribute, to venture out, to go back, and to grow. It’s not terribly unlike the work I’ve done before, except I have no idea how to juggle it all within the confines of my new life. I’m praying for fair winds and a following sea, flexible and forgiving children, and help I haven’t yet found. And, of course, a kibosh on the sickness already.
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