This weekend seemed a bust.
The preschooler was sick.
Runny nose, watery eyes.
The baby was worse.
She is recovering from the same virus
And she has a horrific diaper rash.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
She woke up every hour and a half.
Day and night.
She was alternatively diaper-less or slathered in prescription cream and dye-free diapers.
My husband and I worked all weekend, cleaning and laundering, tending and hugging.
Taking care of them both.
It was exhausting.
Physically and emotionally demanding.
I am more tired going into next week than I was coming out of last.
Each morning, I rocked the baby in the glider, as dawn broke and she arched and cried in pain.
I struggled through fatigue and frustration and fear that she would wake her brother.
We cancelled plans and hunkered down.
No meals out, no explorations.
None of the special times that make weekends so fun.
But, nevertheless, there were moments of happiness.
Holding hands with a little boy.
The softness of the baby’s skin.
Extra cuddles at bedtime.
Each asked, in his or her own way, to be cared for.
A brother, who got his sister a blanket when he thought she needed one.
The weight of each while I carried them from their rooms.
And their shared laughter.
Sometimes, as a parent, I find joy in unexpected places.
Even the ones that are miserable.