That mess all over Levi is not what you think it is.
It would be pretty awful if that was something that had exploded from his diaper. But the reality of it is so much worse.
That, friends, is what remains of my iced peppermint mocha.
The one I treated myself to after picking up Levi's third prescription of the week from the pharmacy.
The one I've thought about each of the four times I've passed by Starbucks on my way to the pediatrician's office in the past 6 days.
The one I was going to enjoy during the half hour of screaming that would ensue while I restrained Levi on my lap for his breathing treatment.
The one I so carelessly left sitting in harm's way next to the couch.
The one Levi just had to have a taste of during the one second that I turned my back to put his medicine in the nebulizer.
It's been a nonstop cycle of high fevers and hacking coughs and grumpiness and trips to the doctor around here.
The opening act was an impressive presentation during which Jacob, asleep in the baby carrier on my back while I lugged Levi on one hip and attempted to pick up the older two from their homschool classes, woke up just long enough to vomit all over the back of me, and all over the floor of the building. (For the record, it doesn't matter how many parenting books you read. Nothing prepares you for having someone throw up in your hair. Nothing. My mother-in-law says a good mommy is a smelly mommy. I was the rockstar of moms that day.)
The older kids took turns coming down with whatever variety of plague it is that we have, so as not to assault us all at once. Levi, it seems, will be the closing act, as his little body just can't seem to shake it without the aid of steroids and antibiotics.
We adults have been spared the worst of it. Unless you consider caring for four sick children and spilling your coffee the worst of it, in which case, we've taken the brunt of this nasty virus.