sicko

Our house has been eerily healthy this winter. On my birthday, I found a year-old card some friends in Saint John gave me for my last birthday. It read:

Happy Birthday! I hope your little family is feeling better.

I had forgotten how sick our house was last winter. Sore throats, heavy chests, fevers, coughs. I don't think there was one week over three months that all of us were well.

Our neighbours two doors down had influenza all of last week. Several of my colleagues have been off with stomach bugs. Someone, whose office is just down the hall from mine, has had a deep, rattling cough for more than a week. And still, our house had been healthy.

Saturday we had a little party and I think every guest was just recovering from something. Four different strains of cold and flu came to wish me happy birthday.

We started to suspect the kids might be sick the next day. No symptoms, other than extreme crankiness. Yesterday, Henry threw a tantrum about everything (everything). It was almost a relief when I came home from work today to find him wrapped up in a blanket on the couch.

Weak smile. "I'm sick, Daddy. Feel my head."

"You're pretty warm, Cornbread. How are you feeling?"

"Ok. Mummy made me a warm apple drink."

He was pretty quiet all night. We read Little House on the Prairie to him for more than an hour. He was pretty tired, but still insisted on listing every team in the NHL before Erin carried him up to bed.

"Tampa Bay Lightning. Minnesota Wild. New York Rangers. Edmonton Oilers (they're a great team). Toronto Maple Leafs..."