My kids are never sick; or so I like to say as I knock on wood (because everyone knows that trick works). So I was a little nonchalant about the fact that my oldest son came home from school on Friday and went straight to bed. It didn’t really occur to me that he might be sick until he called me in to view–and yes, clean up–the disgusting proof in his garbage can later that evening.

Despite being rather stoic during the entire ordeal, and never really making a mess (for which I thanked him often and profusely–I still have nightmares about the projectile Rotovirus event of  2005), he still needed some Mama Love to make it through. Mostly, he just needed me to be with him, inside, while everyone else was outside enjoying the unbelievably awesome weather this weekend.

It totally sucked. I mean, I love–love–love my kid, but after all the snow days we have had and all the cold weather, I was already suffering from such a massive case of cabin fever that I had Jimmy Buffett’s Boat Drinks playing on a loop in my head.  And since he wasn’t technically “getting sick” anymore, but was sleeping like a newborn (which to me means constantly, because I had good babies like that),  there really wasn’t anything I could do except SIT all day Saturday.

Oh, I caught up on all my book club reading; honed my skills at Uno and solitaire; looked at every stupid photo ever tagged by my friends on Facebook, planned a detailed itinerary for a pretend trip to Colorado, and accomplished all the other important things you might imagine I would while being trapped in my house for hours on end. Just ask me some useless Olympic stats. I dare you. And yet oddly, when it was all over, after watching and waiting for my child to emerge from this coma like state, and also watching and waiting for the other two to fall victim to his germs (they never did, thank God), I found that I emerged with my sanity in tact–just in time for the next cold front to move in. ahhhh

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