The past week has been one of the most trying weeks ever.
Pete came down with a high fever and chronic cough on Sunday, visited the doctor, and we all stayed home while he recuperated. After 2 days, his fever finally subsided, but he was still coughing.
On Tuesday morning, Ethan had a slight fever and cough, so we gave him some paracetamol. I also took the second half of the day off to nurse him at home.
Wednesday afternoon: the baby sitter called me after lunch and told me that Ethan was having fever and wouldn’t take his milk. I rushed back home to get the paracetamol and then rushed straight to the sitter’s. We gave him a dose of paracetamol, although when I arrived, his body temperature felt normal to me. With this pattern of body temperature fluctuation, we decided to take Ethan to the night clinic at the hospital after work. Coincidentally, his pediatrician was on duty that night. She assured me that he just had a minor sore throat, so antibiotics were not necessary. She didn’t even prescribe cough medication and just told me to give the flu medication to soothe his throat, and paracetamol only if the body temperature is more than 38 degrees.
Thursday: both father and son were recovering well. Unfortunately, dear Mommy fell caught the flu bug. It was really inevitable given the fact that Ethan coughed and sneezed directly into my face all the while. I rested at home… well, whatever rest I managed to get, I did…let’s put it that way.
Friday: Daddy, Mommy and Ethan are on the high road to recovery. Yayyyy!!!
So yeah, it’s really been a rollercoaster of a week. On Wednesday, I was jokingly telling some of my friends that I had to look after two babies for the past couple of days. Ah well… I’m just grateful that God gave our family the strength to see us through our time of need.
Recently I came across this short story, which I feel is so poignant and it really touched me to the core, now that I am a parent myself:
When I was a new mom, I called my own mother one day to commiserate over how difficult parenting had been that week. My mother abruptly changed the subject and began talking about her golf game. She went on and on about her frustration with her game and how many times she has sworn she would never play another round. Just when I was about to ask her why she was ignoring my problem and talking about hers she said, “And then on the 18th hole you chip in one beautiful shot, and that makes you go out and play another entire round.” She continued, “Parenting is like that. You have a horrible day and think that you cannot take it one more day. And then as you tuck your ‘little monster’ into bed, she says, ‘I love you, Mommy,’ and you go out and parent another round.” She explained that I would forget most of the horror stories, but would remember the “I love you, Mommy” stories when all is said and done.