Sicko

For a family with two little kids and a school teacher, we stay relatively healthy. Aside from the occasional cough or seasonal sniffle, I’d say we’ve been pretty lucky. But it seems our luck may have finally come to an end. The last seven days at the Smith house have been…well, sick.

It started last Thursday, with a couple sick days with Dad. “Daddy never stays in bed all day,” the oldest boy observed. So we did our best to nurse him to health while maintaining a safe, sterile distance. But long about Saturday, after a four hour drive to our Aunt Rhonda’s for the weekend, Cooper came down with a fever.

Motrin is a miracle worker, at least when it comes to lowering a kid’s temp. But it eventually wears off, and by supper time, his fever was over 102, and Brisco was not far behind. We decided to cut our weekend short and make the long, agonizing drive twice the same day.

We arrived home around midnight on Saturday, and it seemed Dad had only gotten worse while we were away. By the time I got both babies in my bed and Dad tucked into his own, I was ready to medicate myself to ensure a good night’s sleep, but I knew being drowsy on top of exhausted would not serve me well in the dozens of middle of the night wakings that lay in store before dawn. So I sandwiched myself in between the two smallest sickos and prayed they slept till morning.

2:32 a.m.: Prayer Denied. Brisco sat up in bed, burning with fever. “Take off my cwose, Mommy,” he said in a sweet, soft little voice I’d never heard him use before. So I stripped off his PJ bottoms and made a trip downstairs for the meds. After a teaspoon of Tylenol and a kiss on the forehead, we laid back down to try this sleeping thing again. Just as I was about to drift back to sleep, I heard that same, small little voice singing, “Zacchaeus was a wee little man…” with perfect pitch and precise enunciation. He didn’t stop until he got to the end as which time he rolled over and whispered in my ear, “Mommy, I just sang Zacchaeus.” What great timing.

As the singing quelled, I found myself dreaming fondly of warm days and ocean waves and nights of sleep uninterrupted. But about that time, I heard Dad coughing and hacking and fumbling for the light. So up I got, and down the stairs I went for more medicine to give to the sickly.

I’m sure this night would have continued in due course had the sun not been already on the horizon. So at 6 a.m., when the oldest was wide eyed, the hair twirling began and the questions of when we could get out of bed were not far behind. About an hour of this was all I could tolerate, so we were up by seven and ready for a dreary day indoors. That is, until Daddy came downstairs.

It seems another sleepless night was all this tough guy could take, so the plan for the day was to get him to a doctor…which we don’t personally have…and it was Sunday…in Western Oklahoma. This task seemed daunting enough, but when I discovered the closest weekend clinic was in Yukon, the thought of four more hours in the car with three sniffing, hacking, whiners was almost more than I could take on four hours sleep. And yet, we drove on.

The second night was definitely worse than the first. The baby was allowed medicine only once, but that didn’t stop him from waking up. I’m pretty sure he was delirious at times since I woke up once with him grabbing my nose and once again with him squeezing my lips together. It was either “bwo my nose,” or “I need a dwink,” at least one time per hour all night long. And just about the time I thought maybe we’d settled in a bit, Cooper started his sniffing. He refuses to “bwo” his nose, but he has no problem sniveling and snorting with the force of a hurricane in the gulf. So from 5 a.m. on, I was serenaded to the tune of my four year old’s sniffing…on every single breath he took in.

As we head into day seven, I’ve got high hopes that things are getting better. Randy is contemplating going to work tomorrow. Cooper has been fever-free since Monday, and Brisco actually took a nap in his own bed this afternoon. This morning boys played outside, Randy took a walk this afternoon, and I snuck out of the house for a late night at the office. I’d say things are starting to get back to normal. And I’m certainly ready.

Yes, we are definitely a pretty lucky bunch; although, I have a feeling my turn to have the winter bug is just around the corner. But one thing’s for sure, no matter how long it takes for my three sickos to recover, I’ll be there like a good mom should, poking down pills and wiping snotty noses and “hode-ing” little babies just because they feel yucky. I’ll endure washing sheets, sleepless nights and piles of wadded tissues.

And then, when it’s my turn, I’ll recover with five-star, round the clock pampering and care that an exhausted and over-extended mom deserves. (Well…I can dream, can’t I?)

And that’s All in a day’s work!