Ginger Ale and Warm Tea

But goodness, last week saw a lot of lying around.


The week started as a party (Eden's fifth birthday!)

and quickly turned into a plague.


After his nap on Sunday, Gideon (23 mos.) was throwing up. 9x in 4 hours, for those of us counting. Wait, there was only one counting?


The next day, it was Abraham (6).

I referenced the torn "Bland Diet" page taped to the inside of my cupboard and readied the ginger ale and warm tea.


I emailed Ethan at work and asked him to please pick up some holds we had waiting at the library. It turns out one of the holds was a "kit" with a children's book and an accompanying stuffed animal. Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't it seem to be an incredible oversight to lend out an item that could possibly be sneezed on, thrown up on, dropped in the toilet, and then plopped back into the gallon storage bag with its book and returned to the library?


We didn't do any of that.


But how would you know?


And how do I know where that thing had been before us? I'm not a stuffed animal fan under the best of circumstances, but the library can keep this city's germs to itself from now on, is all I'm saying.


Then Monday night, Jonathan (3) was sick. We plopped his mattress on the floor on my side of the bed so I could holler, "Use the bowl!" when he started to get sick. This was rather inconvenient, as that was the night that I also got sick, and having his mattress as an extra hurdle on the way to the bathroom proved almost deadly to him a few times.


Then Benjamin (10), then Miriam (6), then Jonathan AGAIN.


Ethan went to check on some room-cleaning progress, and found this:












So, yes. Next was Eden (5). We were so thankful to have the bed still set up in the sitting room/guest room/whatever it is now. The sick children would rest in there, and the others could play without disturbing them.


The entire week, Ethan had meetings every night. He would call on the way home and ask if I needed anything. The answer was always the same: "More ginger ale!"


Sunday night, after his evening sermon (from which the rest of us stayed home), he and I sat on the couch and breathed a sigh of relief. The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week was over. The meetings were over, the towels were all clean, and the bowls were bleached and returned to their regular cupboards.


I went to bed happy.


I woke up to Miriam standing on my side of the bed. "I went into the sitting room and saw PAPA on the sick bed!"


Oh.


So yesterday Ethan had his share of warm tea, ginger ale, chicken barley stew, and yogurt.


I'll not make the mistake (again) of saying we're done. After all, there are two more children in this house (Lily [8] and Salem [23 mos.]), and there is always the chance that one of the previous patients could suffer a relapse.


I'll just go about fixing breakfast (French toast - this recipe but typical shape), making coffee (iced today, the high is 63!), switching laundry, and getting the kids started on seeds: starting some in eggshells and sprouting others. We'll also gather eggs, do some school, and spend much of the day outside (once it hits 50). Lily has her friendship bracelet to work on, and I've got my knitting.

And quite possibly, the day might also involve bleach and ginger ale and warm tea.


But really? It shouldn't bother. We've been there and done that; and quite honestly, we can stomach not stomaching things, and it takes more than a tummy upset to upset us.