A Cog in the Machine

In 17 years of marriage there have been two developments that are crystal clear.

One? I will pick up the latest mutant virus within 3 days of it's existence or just by walking to the mailbox. It'll take me at least 2 weeks to get over it, I'll whine and moan and complain the entire time, and will need an antibiotic twice a year. Guaranteed.

Two? Ange is made of teflon; she never gets sick, has spent approximately 4 days in bed over these 17 years (that includes birthing 3 kids), and is without a doubt the glue that holds our happy little home filled with nitwits, hormonal pre-teen girls, and serial urinators together.

So you'll forgive me for the brief moment of sheer blind panic I had at about 8:15 tonight, with Trot and Rakes stuffing their faces with M & M's and popcorn while I reclined on the couch, when she out of the blue said "I'm aching, I've got the chills, and I'm going to bed."

All I could think was "Trot's hopped up on chocolate, Rakes is flicking corn kernels across the room, Ciera has got a serious case of the giggle fits and nobody has brushed, combed, read, prayed, diapered up or been put in their nightly straight jacket yet and it's all up to me."

I'm proud to report everyone is present and accounted for and asleep (or at least locked in their room. Not that I'd do that.) and all is quiet. Everyone got their medicine, cups of water, and in Trot's case the industrial rubber sheets are tucked in and covered up.

Praying for a 7 a.m. wake up call is probably a little over the top, right?