Since Tuesday morning the vicious stomach virus monster has attacked our home.
First victim, 22 month Diamonte. Cribs and vomit are not a good mix.
Second victim, 8 month old Azariyah. Infants and vomit are not a good mix either.
Third victim, 7 year old Abigail. Talk about a trooper. Our little girl has her very own pink trashcan turned yak-bucket that she embraces at necessary times, and she thanks whoever is the lucky dog that ends up rinsing it out and returning it to her fresh and ready to go.
I have not even been attacked by the vicious stomach virus monster, yet this morning, after a sleepless night with a sick and crying baby, I felt like I was the greatest victim of all.
Fourth victim: poor stay-at-home mom who has to care for sick kids and forego a day of homeschooling.
It sounds ridiculous now, but this morning as Matt was getting ready to leave for the rest of the evening, I was feeling sorry for myself.
I was really put in my place, though unintentionally, when I took some time to continue reading from Elie Wiesel's book, "Night." For those that may not know, Mr. Wiesel was just a teenager when he and his family were taken from their home in 1944 and delivered to Auschwitz concentration camp. His book is not lengthy, and I'm somewhat grateful for that. After all, each page is filled with horrifying details of his personal account of life under unimaginable suffering and evil.
The New York Times said the book was: "A slim volume of terrifying power." Yep. I would agree.
So I've got three sick kids.
But we are in a warm, comfortable home. We have nice clothes. We have soft blankets. We have medicine. We have bathrooms. We are not living in terror. And the only smoke that is in our sight is the burning of our Yankee candle. I have nothing - absolutely nothing to complain about.