Saturday, January 03, 2015

The Horror-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named

I said I wasn't going to write this post. Because believe me, when you are in the thick of cleaning up after six other people with a stomach virus, the *last* thing you want to do when you find a free, non-gross moment is to sit down and wax eloquent on the experience.

I could draw some deep analogy and tell you how I found meaning in scraping bits of half-digested noodles off the hallway carpet. I could say that I was a veritable font of maternal comfort as I soothed fevered brows, proffered sips of water, and patted little bodies on their backs. But really... I was just very, very tired. And earnestly praying... BEGGING... that the last two children and myself would be spared this plague.

These two days did open my eyes, though. I am so spoiled by our cushy society that I get stressed out over trifles...the glasses having specks after a cycle in the dishwasher, or the 9 yr old not having all his multiplication tables memorized *yet*, or the smashed Lego tower that was left out on the floor. These things are unimportant in the grand scheme... when there are mothers all over the world, every single day, praying that their children will survive any number of assorted illnesses. Or desperate for clean water to give them. Or wondering where they will go when the soldiers come or the bombs start to fall.

So meanwhile, I will stuff yet another mound of spoiled blankets into the washing machine. And count myself lucky.

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