There’s a nasty little bug making the rounds. My oldest had it before Christmas, but somehow the rest of us managed to escape it. Some friends had it go through their family a couple of weeks ago—even the dog was throwing up, probably in sympathy—and last Thursday I got a call from the school that my youngest was sick.
When I was a kid, my mom would say “I wish I could be sick for you.” At the time I just thought it was a nice thing to say. Then I became a mom and found it was the literal truth; if I could be sick in place of my kids, I would.
Unfortunately, not only can I not be sick for them, I can be sick as well as them. My mate woke up with it in the wee hours Saturday morning, and by afternoon I could feel the onset of queasiness myself. We had a pretty wretched weekend chez Bertha, with most of us crawling wretchedly between our beds and the bathroom and praying for death.
My older son was fine and perky, if a bit bored.
So anyway, if you’ve been wondering why I haven’t answered your e-mail or something, that’s why. We really didn’t have a lot of interest in anything over the weekend.