I sneezed a lot last Thursday. On the 107th sneeze, I realized things weren’t looking good for me, I was probably going to be sick the following day. By that evening my ear throbbed, my throat was raw and I was running a fever. I dosed up on over-the-counter pain and cold meds and tried to sleep until my appointment the next day.
My husband and best friend got all my kids off to school as my teeth chattered with fever. I was grateful to not have to get out in the cold wind and have a chance to rest. I got dressed just in time to make it to my appointment. I sat in the waiting room of the doctors office fiddling with my iPhone. I tried not to do it, I knew it was a bad idea… I opened the Google app twice then closed it. Then opened it again. I typed my symptoms into the search box and clicked “Go.”
I read WebMD reports about the common cold, sinus infections and upper respiratory infections and I found myself, against my better judgment clicking on hyperlinks with titles such as “Contact Your Doctor With The Following Symptoms” and “Things to be Concerned About.” Within five minutes I was completely and totally convinced that I had developed Scarlet Fever. Turns out it was just a sinus infection and a few zits.
I spent the weekend fighting off the fever (just the regular kind, not the scarlet kind) and recuperating in bed while successfully restraining myself from my highly unreliable Internet MD. My husband and kids took great care of me, keeping me hydrated, fed and quarantined in my bedroom so I could sleep.
On Saturday evening Aubrey and Emma, seven and five-years-old, tiptoed into my bedroom to check on me. “Mommy are you feeling better?” Emma asked.
“A little. What’s up with you girls? Did you have fun today?”
They climbed on to the foot of the bed.
“We did. Momma can we talk to you and massage your feet a little?” Aubrey asked.
Not one to turn down a free massage, I agreed. They grabbed some foot lotion and rubbed my feet while we talked.
I listened to them giggle as they recounted their day and was thinking to myself how happy I was to have three little girls. I don’t know why I always imagined myself with houseful of boys. While they gave me a mini-pedicure I took a moment to be grateful for God’s providence regarding the gender of my children. I’ve settled quite easily into to dance recitals and dress up clothes and I wouldn’t change a thing.
I closed my eyes for a moment then opened them as Sadie, my three-year-old, came bounding into the room. (And does she ever know how to bound? She bounces straight up and down with every single step.)
“Momma! WOOK!” She leaned over the bed into my face.
“What am I looking at? Did you put on some lipstick?” I asked.
“Uh-huh! But wook at dis. I pixed my hair Momma!” I reached out to brush a stray hair out of Sadie’s face and an entire clump of white blond hair drifted to the floor.
“WHAT DID YOU DO!?” I gasped. I ran my fingers through her hair and came away with another handful.
“I jest cutted my hairs just a wittle bit.” She said proudly.
Did I just say I wouldn’t change anything? ‘Cause now I can think of one thing.