A Pox On Our House.

Editorial note:  There goes that ennui thing again.

Nothing sucks the soul out of you quite like having sick children.

We knew this was coming, of course.  As soon as we enrolled Norah into the plague-ridden social cesspool that is (by definition, not specifically our) preschool, we knew she’d be coming home with flesh-eating bacteria or Legionnaire’s Disease or whatever Venezuelan monkey plague has been making the rounds of the pre-K set.  Let’s be clear – I have absolutely nothing against our pre-school, which we adore and that is lovingly taught my my aunt Martha.  But not even hosing the children down with Lysol before and after each class would prevent them from bringing the Ebola virus into our collective living rooms.

And so, two weeks ago, Norah got pneumonia.

She’d been coughing for a few days which she is wont to do if she gets the sniffles (nasal drainage, dontchaknow), so we weren’t particularly worried until the weekend when I noticed that she started running a high fever.  Seven days, four doctor’s appointments and two antibiotics later, she’s diagnosed with full-blown raging pneumonia and was this close (*holds fingers slightly apart*) from being hospitalized.  My sainted wife has exhausted her energy supplies, we put at least 240 miles on our new Honda (“DeFit”, named after Tottenham striker Jermain Defoe… Ulysses is no more) Fit, and spent over $200 on medical co-pays before the penultimate doctor’s visit when we were told that our now-coughing one-year old son ALSO has pneumonia and we better get him on antibiotics as well.

Head, meet desk.  Repeat.

Kids are resilient and tend to bounce back quickly from illness.  At least that’s what the parenting books say.  But it’s a soul-wrenching exercise to see your young daughter whimpering on the couch and watching “Up” for the third time that day because she’s too sick to do anything else.  Or to take said child into a steam-filled bathroom at 3 a.m. to read books because otherwise she can’t stop coughing.  Or to hold your young son while he’s burning up with fever.  They’re exceedingly sweet, my sick children.  They cuddle a lot more, for one thing, curling up into vaguely kid-shaped balls on my lap while they radiate heat like Easy-Bake Ovens.  But it’s a hard price to pay for a little extra cuddle-time with Papa.  I can’t enjoy it.  My entire collective will is concentrating on enfolding them, keeping them comfortable.  It’s as if my entire being is trying it’s damndest to penetrate into their cells, finding those viruses, and eradicating them.  Anything for my kids.  Anything.  I’d jump into traffic for them if I knew then they’d be better tomorrow, tonight, this very hour.

Antibiotics are miracle drugs, though I believe the experts who say we’re overusing them and using them unnecessarily.  Don’t care.  They got my babies better.  It took two weeks until they were back to normal, but they did get better.  Naturally, they defied all logic and shared the underlying crud with their papa.  I didn’t get pneumonia, but I was out for two days with the crud, which in and of itself sucked mightily.  The ONE time I asked them not to share…

It had been a week and all was well.  Until Norah threw up at her Granna’s house Sunday morning.  When my wife called my aunt, Norah’s preschool teacher to see if there was any stomach flu going around the preschool, she couldn’t talk long because she was too busy vomiting with explosive diarrhea.

And the pox on our household continues.

Head, meet desk.  Repeat.

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