Jonas has his Daddy’s eyelashes. They are unreal. Chris’ are even thicker.

Maggie’s are coming in nicely too. I am hoping Chris’ genes win over mine here. Nothing is wrong with my eyelashes, per se, but when you could have lashes like Daddy’s. . .why not?

When my mother met Chris for the first time she took one look at him and said, “My grandbabies are going to have those eyelashes!”

So there you go, reason #236 why I married him. So my babies would have those eyelashes!

I caught Jonas’ bug.

This is the most violent stomach flu I have had in years. Chris was very lucky and his commanding officer gave him the night off of work so he could stay home and take care of the kids. I was truly in no condition to be chasing children. I have been pretty much glued to the porcelain throne for the better part of the past twenty-four hours. I was too sick to read or watch a movie or think and too busy throwing up to sleep. Chris brought me Gatorade and I seriously considered just dumping it straight down the potty because, one way or another, it was going to be there in a matter of minutes anyway. I now understand why Jonas kept laying down on the floor and refusing to get up when I offered him a cozy place in bed or on the couch. That would have required movement, and that was, quite frankly, too much to ask.

About sixteen hours into the ordeal I had stopped throwing up and felt that I should try to get something in me. Chris was all the way downstairs, so I summoned what little strength I had and cried out, “Chris!”

“Yeah?”

“Jellllllllllo!”

So he brought me some Jello. I thanked him and then said, “I never thought I’d be desperately crying out for Jello.”

“Well, I’m just glad you cried it to me, honey.”

See, folks. That’s love. It’s not about flowers or candle lit dinners. It’s about who’s gonna bring you Jello when you are puking and you smell nasty. It’s about seeing the other person looking absolutely disgusting and caring. Until you are holding your wife’s hair back when she pukes, you haven’t truly demonstrated your undying devotion. (Coincidently, I prefer to puke alone, and Chris knows that, so after the first few times of holding my hair back he now just waits outside the door with a drink to offer me when I am finished retching. I love this man.)

The good thing about this bug is that it is short. A mere twenty-four hours later I am mostly ok. My stomach is still twisting itself into knots and I feel better laying down, but all in all, it is a dramatic improvement. Maggie is still healthy; for that I am grateful.