I was just getting over strep (3rd time this year, if you're counting) when Wren started saying her stomach hurt. Then when I was at work on Wednesday, Ben apparently started throwing up at 6 and didn't stop until 2 or 3 in the morning. Leaving Chase and I (the frequently vomited upon) set up to be more or less bed-bound on Valentine's Day. Not in a fun way.
We managed to get the kids to school - both over it of course. Heartless children, with their bouncy young immune systems. I spent the morning doing all the things I knew I wouldn't be able to do in the next few hours. I made chicken soup and jello, I washed 3 loads of towels and sheets, I made our bed, because who wouldn't rather be wishing for a quick death in nice fresh sheets?
And then, in the evening, with the romantic strains of PBS kids in the background, my Valentine and I shared that particular intimacy that comes from sympathetically listening to the sounds coming from the bathroom, while impatiently waiting for your turn. Ah, love. True love.
True heroism, and selfless love, is dragging yourself out of bed when the baby cries at 2 in the morning, making it halfway up the stairs, stopping, going back to the bathroom to throw up, and then going BACK upstairs to put the baby back in bed, all in order to give your equally sick wife another few minutes of sleep.
I'd like to see that in a damn Kay's commercial.
Eleven years in, and I honestly can't think of anyone else I'd rather have hold my hair back.