Janelle Evans

You’ll have to forgive me for the short post.  This weekend we ditch-witched our backyard for drainage pipes and a sprinkler system.  My poor hands have shoveled themselves raw digging out trenches, but I couldn’t be happier.

There is something wonderful about being bone tired.  Painful yes, but when you’re this tired, you know for certain you’ve accomplish all you could for the day.  So how can you have any regrets, or wish I would haves?  It’s not possible.  Your body can’t do one more thing.  Aaaah.

Every day, everywhere I go, my cell phone sits in a case, hanging on my hip.  Until one morning last week…

Unaware that it had fallen off, I left it lying in the parking lot of the grocery store.  It wasn’t until I was miles down the road that I realized I’d lost it.  Brilliant!  Just brilliant!  My smart phone was gone.  Not only was it expensive, the stupid thing held my life; photos, schedules, numbers, things that would be hard to live without for every long.

Like a maniac, I drove back to the store.  At the time, I wasn’t sure where I’d lost it.  I was just retracing my steps.  The whole time, I feared the worst.  I’d never see that phone again.  And I really couldn’t afford to replace it.

I searched the parking lot. I searched the store aisles.  It was gone.  I was so sick my stomach hurt.  As a last ditch effort, I went to the customer service desk to see if it had been turned in.  Shockingly, it had—case in all.  “It had been found in the parking lot,” the employee told me.

I returned to my vehicle, still marveling that my phone had been given back to me.  How grateful I am to that unknown Samaritan.  They could have easily taken it.  After all, I was the one dumb enough to leave it behind.  Whoever he or she is, they passed the truest test of character; doing the right thing even when no one else is watching.  Thank you.

When I was young, I was your typical sports enthusiast.  I had my favorites, but in general, nothing was better than the thrill of a good competition.  Now a mother, I sit in the stands watching my children and it’s just not the same.  It’s not the wins but the losses, oh the losses that are killing me.

Of course I have experienced loss—anyone who competes will at some point experience this.  You learn to push beyond and try again, but watching your child lose is a hundred times harder.  I hate the anguish and helplessness I feel, or the worry these losses are stripping him of his self-worth.  I talk and talk.  “Push beyond. Turn those disappointments into opportunities for learning.”  But I can’t make him internalize my words.  He has to figure this out for himself.  And that’s what’s killing me the most—I don’t know if he ever will.

It snuck in unwelcomed, attacked the youngest first.  My once healthy child laid moaning and vomiting all night long.  There was no sleep that night for this mommy-on-a-mission, I scrubbed and cleaned, determined to keep the virus from spreading.

All that work and it didn’t matter, the virus wiggled past my defenses and struck the middle child next.  More than a day later, caught unprepared, my daughter spewed in the truck with still and hour before we would be home.  As you can imagine, the rest of the ride was dreadful.  Covered in it and really unable to do much about the mess, we sat in silence shivering, the cold Wyoming wind blustering through the rolled-down windows.  We had no choice—the cab of the truck was a gas chamber with the windows rolled up.

Once home, I bathed the children and hosed the truck cab down, sanitizing every nook and cranny.  I must testify right now, it practically took the whole bottle, but Fabreeze is a miracle product.

In the middle of my frenzied cleanup, the oldest child went down next.  He thankfully was big and wise enough to reach the toilet first.

Through it all I washed my hands so valiantly, every time we touched.  Once it again the virus laughed, and stabbed me in the gut.  Thankfully the violent pain is short lived, no more than 24 hours.  But after staying up with everyone else, I’ve been suffering for 72 hours.

Oh the work of a mother is never done, you see I still have one left standing.  My stalwart husband hasn’t been hit yet, and thinks he never will.  For my sake, I hope he’s right.  I’ve had enough of the monster named PUKE.