After being sick with worry about traveling with a toddler, and then heartsick over having faraway close friends, I find myself just plain old sick. For what seems like the thousandth time in two years.
I've written about this before, but it still seems noteworthy that I was never sick with this kind of frequency before Westley was born.
"That's the way it was with us," my dad told me, when I complained to him about yesterday's Stomach vs. Food smack-down. "Your mom and I were like Clydesdale horses before you and your brother came along. Then we caught everything that came down the pike!"
Apparently, I should have expected this. But it still doesn't make sense to me. I mean, I would be willing to accept the demise of my healthy-as-a-horse self if Westley were in daycare and bringing home every illness the Pacific Northwest has to offer. But Westley and I don't really go anywhere (a problem I'm hoping to remedy in the near future). Rob goes off to work and presumably brings home writer-germs on a daily basis. But you'd think that if that were the issue, my husband would get sick at least as often as I do. (Right?)
So I've concluded that one of two things must be going on here. Either I'm much more physically depleted than my doctors or I realize, or else I'm just a giant wuss.
On the microbiological level, of course.