It’s about 3
a.m. when I awake to the anguished cries
of a toddler bawling in the next room.
I lay perfectly
still for a moment, hoping my wife is about to respond. Evidently she is
playing the same game, so for a few seconds, neither of us budge. Finally, I
throw off the covers and go investigate.
Our
two-year-old, Rylan, is sitting up in his bed, wailing wildly. Without turning
on the light, I lean in to comfort him.
“What’s wrong
buddy? Did you have a bad dre…”
Suddenly, I
realize my hand is resting in some sort of warm liquid. My nose picks up the
distinct scent of vomit.
I am filled
with a sense of panic; not because my hand is covered in fresh toddler puke;
it’s because I know the flu bug is about to rip through our house like a
California wildfire.
I head into
work the next morning, but by the following afternoon Amanda sends a text
message confirming the worst; both kids are violently ill. In addition to
sporadic barfing, they become exceptionally whiny and needy. Amanda monitors
their temperatures and does her best to keep them comfortable, but it’s
all-around nasty situation for any stay-at-home mom.
Fast forward
another 24 hours or so and Amanda and I are both incapacitated by unspeakable
flu symptoms. I lay helplessly on the couch, trying not to think about anything
that will make me nauseous. Amanda is lying on the bathroom floor, crying
between fits of sickness.
Of course
the kids are almost fully recovered at this point. They jump all over the
furniture and try to entice me into wrestling matches. Realizing that Mom and
Dad are in a weakened state, they root through cabinets and raid the pantry in
search of candy and snacks.
It’s all
Amanda and I can do to provide the basic essentials of life, but we manage to
feed and bathe them before bed time. Wallowing in the depths of exhaustion and
self-pity, we collapse into bed at 8:30 p.m. and fall into a restless sleep.
It takes two
or three days to free ourselves from all lingering flu symptoms. Life is just
starting to return to normal when our three-year-old, Grayson, suddenly
launches into a fit of raspy coughing.
Amanda and I
exchange horrified glances.
In
desperation, I race to the medicine cabinet and reach for the bottle of Cold
FX, but Amanda puts her hand on my shoulder and nods sadly.
“It’s too
late.”
Leo is a former Advocate editor. Contact him by email at newsdeadline@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter at www.twitter.com/LeoPare
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