I thought that my family was recovering from the flu-like symptoms that walloped them this past week. Fevers broke, coughs lightened, fewer Kleenex filled our waste paper baskets, and feisty irritation between siblings picked up again, which always is a sure sign of feeling better. Nobody randomly fell asleep in their chairs while watching TV, reading, or just looking at things, either, so the sensation that I was living in a nursing home lifted.
The older two girls returned to school mid-week. Early that same morning, my husband got a call that our five-year-old had thrown up during gym class.
Now I wasn't there, but considering that none of her symptoms prior (or latter) had been stomach related, I imagine that gym class went something like this: the exercise caused coughing, and extended coughing caused gagging, and extended gagging caused, well, you know, and all of this combined caused poor Mr. George, the janitor, to mop up a puddle of my daughter's tossed cookies while the rest of her classmates were safely ushered to the opposite side of the gym to continue their rousing game of barnyard tag.
Needless to say, she didn't go back to school the next day. You never return anywhere the day after you publicly vomit. There's an unwritten rule about that, I think.
Today I thought that our normal schedules would resume. Then I noticed the school district's calendar magneted to the side of our refrigerator, and how the box for Friday, January 17 was marked with a stripe, indicating "no school" for some undefinable reason. (Inservice? Record keeping? Spite?)
I've spent the bulk of the afternoon washing all the towels, sheets, blankets, and stuffed animals that have been touched, slept with, potentially drooled upon, or perhaps just looked at by offending germy family members. The task has been liberating.
Even if we haven't had a fighting shot at a regular schedule in weeks due to holidays, artic snow days, and illness, the family is on the mend, and that's what matters.
Plus, Monday is a new day. We'll get there.