For Better or For Worse

     Right now I should be reclining in a chair as a stream of warm water and a pair of practiced hands massage my scalp.  I should be saying goodbye to split ends as my mane prepares to be refreshed by a healthy trim and a fresh set of highlights to cover up my three inch dark roots.  But I am not.  Instead, I am sitting here, on my old computer (the one I haven't used for at least a year- the one that takes half an hour to boot up), staring out the same window at the same gray sky I have stared at for three days now.  This will be the third day my son will be staying home from school with a particularly nasty stomach flu.  For those of you who have never had the pleasure of playing nurse to a child with the stomach flu, let me enlighten you.  The past three days and nights have become a blur of various bodily functions, more Scooby Doo episodes than I ever previously realized existed, baths, sheet changes, clothing changes, nose wiping, bum wiping, Clorox wiping, nose plugging, dry heaving, wall-staring, mind-numbing, putting in three new Scentys a day, sleepless, temperature taking, floor pacing, internal screaming, appointment canceling exhaustion.  It's like Groundhog's Day with vomit.  It started Tuesday night.  My son came upstairs and he had that look.  You know the one; the one that sets your mind racing as to whether it would be quicker to scoop him up in your arms and run to the toilet or to dig through the cupboards for a "throw up bowl".  I went with the latter and was about two seconds and one very unpleasant mess too late.  Out came the paper towels, tissues, Swiffer, Clorox Wipes.  I sent Hyrum to the couch with blanket, pillow and throw up bowl and inhaled deeply; one long, deep, rejuvanating sigh......the calm before the storm.  I didn't realize at the time just how long this particular storm would last.  More often than not, the kids tend to pass a stomach bug through their system in about twenty-four hours.  So, I stood in the kitchen on the night of the first throw up hopefully naive: "He'll miss school tomorrow, but what's one day of kindergarten make up work?  He'll be up and running circles around me by tomorrow night."  Here we sit, three vomit filled days later, as I type and Hyrum stares at nothing in particular with that same vacant expression that has covered his face for days now.  Hyrum chose to get dressed today.  I am hoping that is a good sign.  I however, did not.  I think these pajamas may actually become permanently fused to my body if I don't take them off soon.  At least they're my favorite pair.  I suppose they will be a suitable choice to wear to the mental hospital, which is where I will certainly be headed after many more days of this.  If it weren't for my mom calling to check in occasionally, I would have entirely forgotten what it's like to have an adult conversation.  When my daughter went through her eight months of "colic" (yes, the doctors still tried to pawn it off as that because none of them knew why she cried twleve hours a day), Oprah and Ellen became my best friends.  I believe at one point I actually began having conversations with them through the television screen.  Not even my two dearest day time friends have been able to salvage my sanity this time.  As a sick kid, Hyrum gets the trump card when it comes to tv viewing......we only have one tv.  I will tell you right now that Scooby Doo does not have nearly as many soul-afirming words of advice to offer as does Oprah, and he's not near as funny as Ellen.  Normally, I would put in a movie on our computer ( I have a Netflix copy of Jane Eyre I've been dying to watch for days) and indulge upstairs while Hyrum watched the twentieth installment of Land Before Time downstairs.  But alas, a few days before the puke invasion, monster broke the charge cord for our new computer.  I suppose I could attempt to watch a movie on this dinosaur, if I wanted to watch it in five minute stalled increments while this decrepit excuse for a computer attempted to load it.  I would clean to pass the time, but what would be the point in that?  Cleaning while there is a sick kid in the house is like trying to paint a fence in a downpour.  I would read, but currently by brain is a little too numb, not to mention, every time I pick up a book, monster is on my lap within two seconds with a bright red board book, and instead of reading about romantic interludes in the sweeping English moors, I end up reading about "red ball" and "brown bear".  I would shower, but how clean do I really need to be to clean up puke and well.....other things......we'll call them "brown bears" to avoid sickening the faint of stomach?  What was there to do but blog and moan?  Which is what brings me to my current state; sitting on our broken dining room chair, old, nearly dead computer resting atop dinged and scarred table, looking at the crack of gray sky through our sun faded curtains......have you ever noticed that after days of being trapped inside, everything in your house seems exceptionally dirty and dingy?  Perhaps to pass the time today, I could make a game of counting the dents in the table or the stains in the carpet.......scuffs on the wall.......chips in the paint.......I have to admit, this writing is most theraputic.  With this post alone, I have just come up with four new ways to pass the time today.  If you think of any more, please send them my way.  Crying is always a good one, but I already did that yesterday, and it only took up a dissapointing ten minutes. 
    In many marriage ceremonies, the words "for better or for worse" are spoken as teary eyed couples profess their love and commitment through the exchange of vows.  When a baby joins a family, there are no vows spoken aloud.  Just a quick spank, a red-faced wail and a trip to the tiny tub.  The moment that little screamer is placed in your arms, the second their squinting blinking eyes meet yours, a thousand unspoken vows pass between you.  In that moment, though you may not realize it at the time, you vow to stay up for countless nights inventing new ways of calming colic that would seem crazy to the sane world.  You vow to clean up bodily functions which before you wouldn't have touched with a fifty foot pole.  You vow to read the same book a thousand times and spend half the day looking for the favorite binky.  You vow to kiss away boo-boos and sing away night time monsters under beds.  You vow to laugh at the same knock-knock joke (which wasn't funny to begin with) every time you hear it and to praise each new drawing as if it belonged in the Louvre.  In short, you vowed to love that tiny person for better or for worse. 
     A few days ago, the day before the flu bug bit Hyrum, to be exact, I took the boys to the City Park while Morgan was at cheer practice.  The city of Shelley puts up a marvelous Christmas light display, complete with a gigantic "Happy Holidays" made of red tinsel and lit with red lights and a Christmas tree made of light strands attached to a telephone pole.  I watched my boys, with red noses and marshmallow coats as they ran from one display of lights to the next, so excited to see up close what they had admired so many nights from afar.  Something about that simple moment sank deep into my soul.  I wanted to freeze the moment.  It was a perfect picture of youthful delight.  It was one of the better days.  As we walked through the frozen grass toward our car, I happened to see a single red Christmas bulb that must have fallen off the giant Happy Holidays sign.  Without a second thought, I picked it up and put it in my coat pocket; a tangible reminder of a simply perfect moment.  I guess it's good to have those tangible reminders on the worse days.  Have you ever had a major argument with your spouse, and then softened immediately upon seeing a wedding photo in the hallway.....a tangible reminder of the better days to help you get through the worse.  I think I may just carry that little Christmas light around with me today as a reminder that things have been better and that they will be again.  As for adult conversation, I'm sure I'll have one again someday.   For now, I am summoned to the couch to read for the 14th time "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" to a little boy who has stolen my heart, for better or for worse.