So it always goes something like this: Jacob, James, Nate. Maybe me. This is the predictable course of every common school-age fever, sneeze, rash, or barf bug as it makes its way through our household. Jacob is our entry point. Every. Single. Time.
This year we seemed to get through the flu season somewhat early. It took James down over Halloween, which means it hit Jacob mid to late October. He thought he was better till he barfed-up water from an all-fours position on the soccer sideline. A few weeks later, Nate also claimed to be healed, till he literally couldn’t speak at halftime. When he finally did say something, it made no sense, explained by a super high fever when we got home. You know it’s bad when Nate wants to sub out.
Meanwhile, the boys have noticed their oldest cousin’s deeper voice and his shadow of a mustache. Though Nate’s criteria for a mustache is that you can twirl it. Fortunately, there is no twirling happening in the seventh grade.
So it’s November and Nate’s sick and his voice is hoarse. We’re walking along and he looks up at me with his wide eight-year-old eyes and says breathlessly, “You don’t think it’s pu-buwr-dy, do you?”
I reassure him… “No, I don’t think it’s pu-buwr-dy.”