My home has been invaded by germs. Last week, Madalyn was down - well, not really down, but could not go to preschool - with fever. Just fever, and she said her throat hurt. Of course, I pulled out my little white coat and flashlight and examined her throat and found no sign that we should visit a real doctor. She was better in a couple of days. Then Saturday morning, when David woke up, I could tell by looking at his eyes that he wasn't well. By mid-afternoon, he was on fire. So he is home from school today with fever still but no other symptoms except for an upset stomach.
And my husband - the one solid rock in the house that is seldom ever effected by any crazy illnesses or plagues that make their way into the house - woke up yesterday morning and said the words I thought I would never hear him say: "I don't feel good." For him to actually say this out loud is big - really big. He never gets sick. He never talks about how he feels. He has only had a fever like two times in our almost ten years of knowing one another. And early this morning was one of those times. I woke up to him trying to find some ibuprofen in the kitchen. He got back in bed and was shivering. I felt so sorry for him, because I do believe that is one of the worst feelings anyone can have. Fever and chills.
Anyway. The germs are all around me, threatening to attack. And I know what will happen. On Wednesday, when everyone else is well, I will be the last to fall. I am always the last to fall. Oh dear.