We are sick. #1 told her seminary teacher this morning that we didn’t make it to church on Sunday because everyone’s sick. She wasn’t exaggerating. Seven of the nine kids and both parents are battling this virus in one stage or another. I was hopeful that it would be on the way out when I returned from my business trip, but no such luck.

I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t do sick well. I ache from head to toe, and when everything hurts the littlest things set me off. One in particular that really gets me is noise.

I am sitting on the couch clicking through my email and #4 drops the broom. The metal handle bangs the tile sending a blast of discomfort through the air. I shoot a frustrated look in his direction and ask him to put it away. He apologizes and walks of and I return to my emails. A few minutes later #7 and 8 come into the room with handfuls of little metal matchbox cars, the kind that bounce and vibrate several times producing a terribly sharp, annoying sound when they fall on the hard floor.

I cringed at the first bang, but ignored it. The second one a few seconds later resulted in a glance in their direction. Useless at is was, since they were paying no attention to me, #8 reached down to pick up the car and dropped two. Bang. Bang.

“Oh  my goodness!” I exclaimed holding my head, unable to hold it back. “Please put the cars away.”

They looked at me, reached down to pick up the two cars, dropped three more, and then left the room.

I’m sure I’ll step on those later.

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