In a couple of years, this week will be a story we tell. It will be like my, "Remember when, during my first month as an RA of an entirely freshman floor, our dorm flooded with sewage water? In the middle of the night? And the ceiling tiles were bulging with sewage and it was running down the walls? During parents weekend? And the power went out? And the fire alarms went off all night long? And it was pouring rain outside? And a news crew showed up while our angry, smelly, sleep deprived girls were standing outside in the rain in their pajamas at dawn? And then we had to go to class?"
This week will be a story like that one.
Except for this weeks story will sound more like, "Remember the time we had three kids, and THE DAY WE CAME HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL the 18 month-old started throwing up? And then the 5 year-old started throwing up? And then came the diarrhea? And then I got sick? While nursing every two hours and sleeping in 1 hour intervals? In a house with a newborn and two vomiting children? And two weeks later the 18-month-old got sick again? Because apparently we got the plague that NEVER GOES AWAY?"
Yes, in a couple of years this will be a great survival story. "The week Henry was born" will be Conner family legend. But it's not a survival story yet; right now we're still surviving.
Dan and I keep encouraging each other as we go through these long days: "This is not what having 3 kids is like; this is what having a newborn is like. This is what a house full of norovirus is like. This too shall pass."
This will pass when the kids get well. This will pass when Madeline can go back to school. This will pass when Henry (and I) are able to sleep for longer.
This will pass. Our mantra.
The last two weeks have brought us sweetness too, and it isn't lost on us.
Hazy early mornings with a newborn on my chest. Watching Sam learn what a baby is, and grow to love one. Watching Madeline's unflappable spirit; such a bright bubble that not even a stomach bug can get her down.
I've loved the sweetness, I'm just hoping for the sweetness with a little less Zofran and bleach and carpet cleaner and midnight laundry involved.
So if you're a praying person, you can pray this virus out of my house. (And that tiny Henry stays well!) I'll bleach and you pray. Deal? Deal.