The words “violently ill” have long seemed like hyperbole to me, but then I hadn’t truly been sick since I was very young, maybe six or seven years old. I remember laying on the couch next to a bucket, a towel folded over the cushion, wondering why my ginger ale had to be warm and why I couldn’t have more butter on my toast. It’s been a long time, and really, I’d rather it have been longer.
I was violently ill this past weekend, and it was dreadful.
My poor Swee woke me up around 2am on Friday as she crawled into my bed. Given the hour, I didn’t ask any questions and instead pulled her in for a snuggle. She soon woke me again, and I spent the rest of the night holding her skinny little self over the bucket. She seemed to rally on Saturday but things went up and down for her for a couple of days.
Gramma came Saturday evening and took care of everything. Babies, dinner, dishes, laundry, Candy Land, bedtime, all the way through J’s shift Sunday night when I was finally able to sit upright again. We made it out for the parade on Monday, but Swee relapsed and we went home to bed. She’s much better now, if a little tired, and I’m so glad she’s finally eating and getting back to her normal. And I’m glad she didn’t have it as badly as I wound up. J and Beans escaped unscathed, thankfully, and Beanie was able to gorge herself on cake Monday night as we celebrated her second birthday.
My Swee-girl and I are glad to be back. J has this weekend off, and there’s a lot of living to do. Welcome to summertime in Maine!