I am sad to report that Aaron is sick. He has some virus that seems like strep, but isn't. We took him in to the doctor, just in case. The doc doesn't think he has Coxsackie, either. I am fine with that; we don't have good luck against the Coxsackie virus around here.
I don't like to see Aaron sick. He lies on the couch, flushed face into the pillows, and tries to rest. He is quiet and withdrawn and overall, not himself. Usually, at that point, I give in and feed him some Ibuprofen. Within the hour, poof, he is back to himself.
As much as I don't enjoy seeing sick Aaron, it is almost as tough to have Ibuprofen-laden Aaron around. Why, you ask? Because that child doesn't stop talking once that lovely chemical has bound to its receptors. So far this morning, Aaron has told me about Angry Birds, the new Dr. Who episode, his theory on why dinosaurs have gone extinct, some of the things that happened in school last week, why the cubes on the Rubik's cube are or are not different, and a plethora of things I cannot remember. My brain, I will admit, had to go into auto-pilot just to survive. I know I was simply saying, "Yes, that's great," for many of the things he told me. I can't stand doing that, but I also can't possibly pay close attention to everything he says. It makes my head ache, more than it already does (I, too, might have a version of this virus).
Not all is dismal when Ibuprofen-laden Aaron comes out, however. In fact today, he worked wonders. His talking and overall silliness, along with a new coloring book and set of markers, kept Melina busy -- very busy. The two of them sat at the dining room table for over 2 hours this morning while I caught up on some calls, started dinner, and got 1/2 of our house cleaned. I put cleaning on the top of the priority list so that maybe, just maybe, we can get this virus out before it strikes anyone else.
Maybe I should hope that he isn't better by tomorrow?
I don't like to see Aaron sick. He lies on the couch, flushed face into the pillows, and tries to rest. He is quiet and withdrawn and overall, not himself. Usually, at that point, I give in and feed him some Ibuprofen. Within the hour, poof, he is back to himself.
As much as I don't enjoy seeing sick Aaron, it is almost as tough to have Ibuprofen-laden Aaron around. Why, you ask? Because that child doesn't stop talking once that lovely chemical has bound to its receptors. So far this morning, Aaron has told me about Angry Birds, the new Dr. Who episode, his theory on why dinosaurs have gone extinct, some of the things that happened in school last week, why the cubes on the Rubik's cube are or are not different, and a plethora of things I cannot remember. My brain, I will admit, had to go into auto-pilot just to survive. I know I was simply saying, "Yes, that's great," for many of the things he told me. I can't stand doing that, but I also can't possibly pay close attention to everything he says. It makes my head ache, more than it already does (I, too, might have a version of this virus).
Not all is dismal when Ibuprofen-laden Aaron comes out, however. In fact today, he worked wonders. His talking and overall silliness, along with a new coloring book and set of markers, kept Melina busy -- very busy. The two of them sat at the dining room table for over 2 hours this morning while I caught up on some calls, started dinner, and got 1/2 of our house cleaned. I put cleaning on the top of the priority list so that maybe, just maybe, we can get this virus out before it strikes anyone else.
Maybe I should hope that he isn't better by tomorrow?
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