Has it been a week? It’s been a week. I would have written something by now, except that every post I could think of writing began with the line, “I’m the only person in the house who has not yet come down with the barfing sickness.” And that just seemed like tossing fate a big, shiny red apple and saying, “Take a bite, baby.”

Three… two… one…

Okay, still not barfing. We’ll see how long that lasts.

I invited me and the boys over to a friend’s house last Saturday evening for dinner and trampolining. At about 10 p.m., I got the phone call every parent dreads: “Anyone at your house barfing yet?” No, not yet, but on Monday morning I stumbled out of bed and was greeted by Rowan, who said, by way of good morning, “Isaac was throwing up in his bed all night.” Rowan, however, seemed as healthy as an apricot, so we sent him off to school. By midmorning, however, I had arrived at the school to collect him — a miserable, slick little package of a child — from the school’s office. “He’s been very brave,” the principal called as we left. By the next day, both kids were fine, just in time for Rachel to succumb.

Next in line? The babysitter.

My current goal is not to come down with the summer cold that both boys seem to have picked up. And to catch up on the various deadlines that went whooshing by à la Douglas Adams as I pulled extra shifts on barf-watch duty and childcare last week.

Fortunately, Dana Rudolph over at Mombian is picking up the slack, with the second of three giveaways for And Baby Makes More: Known Donors, Queer Parents and Our Unexpected Families. Visit her and leave a comment (by midnight today) about how you have created (or plan/hope to create) your family, or the language your family uses to describe itself, and you could win a copy. The lovely folks at Insomniac Press will mail you a copy directly, so you don’t have to worry about us infecting you.

Good luck!

So, it’s been a week. Or two. I would offer an excuse— but look! Boys in matching dinosaur pajamas!

I’m guessing that distraction doesn’t work so well for those of you over the age of eight or so, but wouldn’t it be nice if it did? Like if, instead of trying to explain to a client why that press release won’t be coming today or to your significant other why you haven’t yet — even though you said you would last week — made an appointment to have the snow tires put on the car, you could just say, “Hey, look! A raisin! Do you want one? No? How about two — one for each hand? Yummy raisins!”

Yummy raisins. Whatever.

In my defense, my doctor told me last Saturday that my gunky sinuses and fluid-filled ears were the worst specimens she’d seen in the past six months, which made me feel sort of proud, in a warped kind of way. I like to overachieve, and the past few weeks have not felt so stellar in that regard. Not being able to hear or breathe or sleep properly will do that to a girl, I suppose.

Honestly, possibly my biggest triumph in the last few weeks has been ridding the fridge of several near-empty Tupperware containers, thus contributing to the overall organization of the house. I’d eat that final half-square of polenta or Isaac’s container of rejected cottage cheese and I would feel a disproportionate sense of accomplishment.

Hey — did you notice that the dinosaur pajamas glow in the dark?

I thought about blogging. Really, I did. I had lots of half-formed ideas, imagined how I might have turned a dozen just darling things the kids did into full-fledged posts, and then I went to bed. In, of course, the basement, every second night, so that Rachel wouldn’t keep me awake with the hacking sounds of her, oh, pneumonia. (Which, unlike my ear/sinus infection, did not respond so well to the first round of antibiotics and inhaled corticosteroids. Now I’m mostly better and she’s, well, not. Thank God for socialized medicine; you guys in the States should try it sometime.)

Thank God, also, that my mother-in-law arrived yesterday. With matching dino PJs in tow. She spent much of today bustling about and tidying things and making cups of tea and comfort foods (including custard and chicken soup; yes, really) for her daughter and then accompanying me to various children’s end-of-year activities. Like Rowan’s class play — an inspired, French-language rendition of Chicken Little. (‹Oh, non! Le çiel tomb!› But you have to clutch your face like you’re in Edvard Munsch’s The Scream while you say it VERY SERIOUSLY.)

And now Rachel’s mom is asleep in the basement, and the boys are asleep in their beds, and Rachel is asleep in our bed, and I’m going to turn in on the couch. So as not to be awakened by the coughing.

I’ll be back — I promise. The sky isn’t quite falling; it’s just that it’s taking a little bit more work than usual to hold it up.