Two years ago I celebrated a milestone birthday.  Sadly, not my 21st, but a milestone birthday nonetheless.  I had a big party planned to celebrate with family, friends and loved ones, and was excited and thrilled to see old friends and new.  (My Sister even flew in from Edmonton for the week to surprise me)

Around 0300 that morning, I woke to my youngest son sleepily calling my name and promptly vomiting all down my arm.  Happy Birthday!  So I got him a bucket, got us all changed, stripped and changed the bed (two more times that night) and tried to get back to sleep.

It was flu.  And bad.  My youngest son has a delicate gag reflex, and he was taken down hard by this bug.  I spent my big day doing laundry, refilling the electrolytes and changing buckets.   I called off the party.  There was absolutely NO reason to share this kind of love!  I cancelled all my plans and cleared my week, expecting a long haul.   This was the glamour of motherhood –  taking all the  best laid plans and chucking them out the window when one of the kids goes down with a bug.

Flash forward two years later, and it’s birthday time again for me.  My darling husband had just taken me out for a delicious birthday lunch, and I get the terse call from the school secretary:  the little guy is in the office with a bucket and I need to come and get him.  Now.

We joked that it couldn’t be flu two years later.  We joked that it was the sensitive gag reflex, or the bad sushi, or eating too fast at lunch.

And then we saw the tell-tale chalky complexion, the clammy head, and the dark circles.  And we knew.  Happy Barfday to me!