Famine

I'm sure that in the sea of random and vivid dreams I had while pregnant with Bridger, one of them went something like this: picture a large green field, six healthy cows grazing, frolicking. Enter six sickly cows, sneezing, wheezing, coming to devour the happy cows and walk inside the small smelly barn.

Had I been in Pharaoh's court and had access to a guy like Joseph, I have no doubt he would have interpreted the dream like this, "Ahh, as a mother you will have six beautiful months of happy children who eat dirt and ice cream daily but won't get even the smallest tummy ache. Then will come the six months of famine where merely glancing at a dirty tissue will begin a prolonged house arrest with snot noses, all-night hackfests and barf bags. Oh, and you'll be doomed to repeat the cycle again and again."

Asher caught his first little cold last week. He sported a snotty nose. He was whiny, clingy, awful. No one has had so much as a sniffle since last March, but here we are again on the cusp of a six month stretch where surely someone in the house will be sick.

The trouble is as much as I try to "stockpile" summer days like corn in a silo, it doesn't work. I can't store up health and mete it out later like candy from Halloween. I have to take it all as it comes, so here I am preparing for another day on the couch watching Sesame Street. I guess it's not all bad.