Little Don Meow has cut the ribbon on Rotavirus season, it seems.
His stomach is bothering him and things unspeakable of in company that may eat while reading this blog are coming out both ends. He is better now, which is why I can be a little more cavalier in my descriptions, rather than beside myself with panic and worry and missed sleep.
Also, he has the distinction of being number two. This is not my first time at the gastrointestinal virus rodeo, and while you can get bucked if you're not careful, the fall won't kill you.
We all love our children.
It's hard to think of loving them when they are hale and hearty and getting into mischief. It really is. Strangely enough, it is easiest to love them when they are contained-- like when they are quiet and serene; or asleep; or when they are sick.
The exuberance of children takes our sanity away. Their energy robs us of our own.
But their pain and suffering is the most potent fuel of all: the one that makes us realize that if any harm were to ever come to our children, there would be no hesitation in swiftly and blindly hurting the source of that pain so fast your head would spin.
No hesitation. No consideration for one's own life or limb: just swift and deadly action, if necessary.
And it's weird to think in those absolute terms, until harm comes knocking and then you know that it's not even a matter of what-if. You just tap into your parental Dirty Harry reserves, and go for it.
Which is why it's important to focus on this very thing whenever life doesn't go as you have planned it, parents and parents-to-be:
Do the children come first?
If they don't, you have failed as a parent.
The children come first.