My little boy, such a sweet little thing, gave me a unique and heartfelt gift for Mother's Day: his 24 hour bug. I spent the day in bed while my husband looked after our, now well, little guy.
In many ways it was perfect. I didn't lift a finger (because I couldn't), my husband had his payback for lying in bed all day Saturday (while he was knocked out by the virus), and every so often my little guy would run in my room for a quick snuggle and then run back out to dad.
Not so perfect was the bug itself. Aside from making me feel like I drank 12 beers too many the previous night and was then run over by a tractor, I couldn't eat all day and I'm pretty sure I dropped a few pounds. This is a BAD, BAD thing for me. You will hate me after I write this, but none of my work clothes fit because I've spent the past year chasing a baby and eating string cheese when I have 10 seconds to spare. You won't hate me when I admit that I don't look Kate Moss hot 'n sexy; I look like I got lost trying to find the treatment center. So, a waffle-filled brunch would have been much better for my health.
But forget about me, what the toddlers who get this thing, throw up eight times and rejoin the party like they're at a damn kegger? Are they made of iron and steel? Only this body composition would explain how they survive the 803 falls they take everyday and how 26 pounds of cracker-filled bones survived the plague that swept our house.
I have a new respect for toddlers. Those crazy bastards make me feel like an old, old lady.