Grin and bear it...maybe?

Last week was, well, less than stellar. The Mr. wasn't feeling so hot on Monday, and he only went downhill from there. Everyday was a higher fever and more time in bed. Any married woman knows when the Mr. is under the weather, you add the care of another child to your brood. It's just the truth. He was miserable.

Allow me to complain for a minute, but "single parenthood" is tough (God bless the parents who really do it). Taking care of the womb-child, W and hubs was incredibly exhausting. Add a dog who won't do her business for me and reflux that was burning a hole in my throat...those were just the icing on a really bad cake.

By the end of the week, I sheepishly admit I was resentful of the ill. Sick of sickness. Tired of being so tired. And just plain ornery. I was well over the opportunity I had to serve my family and instead was choosing to sulk about it.  I was due for an attitude adjustment. That's what my dad would have said. Growing up, I was often in need of such an adjustment. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Cue Saturday night. Dave was really wanting to get out of the house for a change of scenery. Although his appetite still hadn't quite returned, we agreed to meet up for dinner with his parents and some friends. Very casual, thank goodness.

We hadn't been at the restaurant longer than 10 minutes when, out of nowhere, W got really upset. He was practically in tears -- sad tears -- and wanted me to hold him. What two-year-old wants to sit on his mother's lap with his head on her shoulder? I should have seen this barreling semi coming from a mile away.

W sat up, looked at me and...blaaaahhh! Hose down of puke. Everywhere. Right at me. In my hair. My ear. My face. Down my shirt. Pants. Soaked through. Everywhere. As bad as you can imagine times ten.

A crappy week I thought couldn't get worse. Wrong!

Returning to pukefest, I was kind of in shock. I didn't know what else to do other than walk right out the front door, get in the car and head home. So that's what I did, followed by a husband and friend using paper napkins in a futile attempt to wipe us down. It was pathetically gross.

As W and I made our way home, he grew quiet for a moment and I prayed (literally) that he wouldn't vomit in the car. Aside from the stench and mess, he was sitting right behind me. Surely, I didn't need to be hit from behind.

Somewhere between the highway on-ramp and home, the adjustment happened. As clear as day it occurred to me that things can always be worse. And I don't mean that in a negative or ungrateful way. Quite the opposite. In just about every situation in life, there could always be something worse, more terrible, more uncomfortable, etc.  Granted, the sickness-filled week wasn't the best, but D is slowly feeling better, W hasn't puked since yesterday, and the dog and I have made amends to our relationship.  Things could definitely be worse.

So, this week I'm going to try a little harder to see the silver lining, to appreciate the small things, and to wear a smile on the inside and out.  I'm not saying another venture in public won't be headlined by vomit, but at least I'll be able to sigh and know that it could be worse; he could have puked on the people in back of us.