A mere forty-eight hours ago, Matt called to let me know he was on his way home from work (early) and he didn't sound so hot. In fact, he sounded like he might be feeling a teensy bit nauseated. My heart began to beat a little faster, but I tried to stay calm. If you know me you know that, not only am I a bit OCD, I'm also a card-carrying, Purell-lovin', certified germophobe. So, you can imagine my concern when I hear that a potentially infectious disease might be making it's way to my house harbored by my dearly beloved husband.
Soon after the foreboding phone call, he came in and quickly ducked into the laundry room bathroom just inside the back door. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, the plague had just entered my house. (ominous music score here).
May I point out a couple of milestones before we go on? Firstly, I have never known my husband to (ahem) lose his lunch since we've been been together. Secondly, we're almost never sick at the same time, which has meant that someone has always been there to take care of the other or take care of the little guy. Thirdly, I haven't tossed my cookies since I was SEVEN YEARS OLD. You may not have known this because a. I don't usually discuss these things and b. I never say this out loud for fear that I'll jinx my good luck.
The husband was promptly sent to bed with the computer and a copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel (not only is he handsome, he's literary too). I proceeded to have a small freak out and then decided to lysol (yes, it's a verb) everything. I didn't make it far before I too was feeling a little odd. However, due to a long and colorful history of hypochondria, I dismissed the minor stomach cramps and pounding headache.
One hour later and I was desperately calling for back-up (i.e. mom/grandma/florence nightingale).
While waiting for said back-up, I laid on the couch while my husband languished upstairs and Sam went from standing in front of the Veggie Tales I'd managed to turn on and back over to the couch to pat my head (seriously, how sweet is that?).
And then, after poor Sam had been put to bed with only milk for dinner and still in his playclothes and Matt and I laid on either end of the couch watching a movie we were less than interested in, our very own personal superhero arrived bearing two flavors of powerade and some major get-well know how. Huzzah!
Despite the unfortunate catalyst for our little family slumber party, the last twenty-four hours have managed to be a pretty darn good time: John Wayne movies, fun times with Sam (who hasn't caught the plague yet and we're PRAYING that he doesn't), cookie-baking (only after all nausea had passed), chatting over hot tea, etc.
And so, it turns out that the very best medicine of all is a rescue visit from MOM (imagine this word bedazzled). It was almost worth the getting sick part...almost.
Now that mom/grandma/florence nightingale/superhero is on her way back to where she swooped in from, I'm off to make up for all those calories I lost over the past two days. Hello, half-full bag of chocolate chips. Let's reacquaint ourselves.