It's February fourth. It's 67 degrees outside. While the rest of my family battles real fevers of, I am fighting my own battle with Spring Fever. And I'm barely conscious.
Caring for a sick Four-Year-Old is not for the faint of heart. Last night was a brand new experience for me. Night Terrors. I don't think they were authentic night terrors, though, because he did come out of it eventually. They were more like fever dreams. After a half an hour of staring at me and screaming out in fear and yelling out nonsense he managed to calm down and I spent the rest of the night with him in the recliner listening to his feverish non-sequiturs.
Which brings me to the present. I just sneaked out of the house leaving the Four-Year-Old with the also ailing Eighteen-Year-Old so I could purchase some much needed Motrin. It hit me as soon as I walked out the door. The warm breeze. The feeling of heat radiating off the concrete. The smell of the soil awakening from the deep freeze. BAM. Spring fever. Now the weatherpeople are calling for another round of snow and freezing rain tomorrow. Unfortunately there is no going back for me. I've got it bad and I won't be satisfied till the hyacinths bloom.
I blame the groundhog.