Joe catches the evil head cold of death. And then, Steve and I both catch it as well. And then Rebecca catches it. And my world sinks into despair and doom.
I vaguely remember a time when, if I caught a bad cold or flu (which happened once or maybe twice per year), I would (1) call in sick to work; (2) lay on the couch, cradling a box of Kleenex in one arm and the remote in the other; (3) watch marathon episodes of Sex in the City, or Real Housewives of Orange County, or B-rated teenage girl movies, or something else wonderfully embarrassing and terrible; and (4) take multiple naps; while (5) Steve and Rebecca nursed me back to health, bringing me steaming mugs of Gypsy Cold Care tea and calling me "poor baby."
Post-baby, things look pretty different. Here's what a sick day looks like now: (1) Joe sucks on another baby's toys, catches his fifth mega-virus in six months, thoroughly coats every surface in the house with saliva and snot, and the rest of the household succumbs to the plague a couple days later; (2) I don't bother calling in sick to work, because, seriously, a day in the office sounds way more restful than staying at home with a snotty, fussy baby; (3) I come home early anyway, because I'm too sick to focus my snot-encrusted eyeballs on my computer monitor; (4) once home, I try to lay on the couch and watch bad television, while Snotty Joe has a fun time dropping beer bottles and matches into the toilet and eating dog kibble off the floor; (5) my husband, equally sick, eyes me resentfully as he carries Joe out of the bathroom for the third time in a half hour; (6) no one calls me "poor baby" and no one makes me tea; (7) I blow my nose on whatever I can find, including spare cloth diapers and dirty baby clothes; (8) Joe cries for his mommy; and (9) Steve and I cry for our mommies.
Repeat this process approximately once a month.