I’m usually very aware of the things I need to get done each day, and I’m usually very, very aware of the things on my to-do list that don’t get done by the end of the day. But there’s nothing like a severe bout of norovirus to show me how much I actually do get done each day—by preventing me from doing anything.
Our 4-year-old was felled first, a week ago. I think it may have been the first time that he’s ever dealt with throwing up, because he was both thrilled and appalled by his output. But he was miserable for a good 48 hours, and spent most them wrapped up in my arms, crying. So, as we soothed them and kept a wary eye on out 6-year-old, my husband and I figured it was only a matter of time until we were clutching our tummies, too.
Five days later, my 6-year-old was running for the bathroom. And 6 hours after that, I couldn’t keep anything down.
Still, I was sure I’d be able to at least work. I sit in front of a computer and edit and write — I could do that from bed, couldn’t I?
Turned out I couldn’t. I couldn’t sit up for more than a few minutes without getting queasy. And as my husband and no-longer-sick son held down the fort, I realized that, for all of my worries that I don’t do enough, it turns out that I actually do a lot. It was just impossible for me to see that until I couldn’t do any of it for a while.