My Toddler’s Been Off Since Her Virus And My House Is Full Of Goldfish Crumbs
I’m sitting cross-legged on the playroom floor right now, my third coffee of the day gone cold an hour ago, and Lila’s passed out on the foam mat next to me, her thumb stuck in her mouth and a half-squished Goldfish cracker crammed in the crease of her elbow. I should get up. I should put a load of laundry in, I should wipe the toothpaste gunk off the bathroom sink, I should at least throw that half-eaten cracker away before it gets lost under the couch and grows mold next month. But if I move even an inch, she’ll wake up. And if she wakes up, she’ll start crying. Not the angry I-want-a-cookie crying, the shaky I’m-so-tired-and-my-body-still-feels-funny crying that I’ve gotten way too used to this week.
The fever broke three days ago. I was so relieved I actually did a little happy dance by the thermometer when it read 98.6. Texted my husband, screamed into our mom group chat that we’d survived, rescheduled the playdate I’d canceled twice, even made a grocery list that didn’t just include Tylenol and popsicles. I was so ready to get back to normal. I’d forgotten that normal doesn’t just click back on the second the fever goes away.
No one warned me about this part, right? Everyone talks about the scary part: the middle-of-the-night fevers that spike out of nowhere, the coughing that won’t let anyone sleep, the trip to the doctor where you’re panicking it’s something worse. No one talks about the weird, gray in-between part after the virus is gone, when your kid is technically “better” but just… off.
Yesterday I tried to get us out of the house, like I’d planned. Got Lila dressed, got her socks on, packed her bag, got my shoes on. And she stood by the door, looked at me, and started screaming. Not the usual toddler tantrum screaming, this raw, scratchy screaming that made her whole body shake. I tried everything: different socks with the princess print she likes, a sticker I found in the junk drawer, the promise of a donut on the way to the store. Nothing worked. She screamed so hard she threw up a little on the doormat. I just stood there, holding a clean paper towel, and started crying a little too. Not big sobs, just silent tears down my face, because I was so tired and I just wanted to get milk and get out of the house for ten whole minutes without anyone crying. I ended up carrying her back to the couch, taking my shoes off, and opening a new bag of Goldfish.
She hasn’t eaten anything else, basically. Used to beg for oatmeal with blueberries every morning, used to steal half my toast at breakfast, used to eat a whole container of strawberry yogurt before naptime. Now she pushes all of it away. Tried to give her a banana yesterday, she threw it across the room. Tried veggie crackers, she threw one at my face. Only the neon orange, chemically Goldfish. I’ve bought three bags in four days. My car has crumbs in the cupholder, my purse has crumbs in the bottom, there’s even a crumb on my pillow from when she snuck into bed with me last night. I should care more, I guess. I should worry that she’s not getting enough veggies or fiber or whatever the parenting books say she needs. But right now, if she’s eating something, anything, I’m calling it a win.
I messed up the playdate, too. Felt so bad canceling again that I dragged us over there yesterday afternoon, after the doormat incident, once she’d calmed down. She was fine for ten whole minutes. Played with the playdough, chased the other kid’s golden retriever, even shared a animal cracker. I was starting to think okay, we’re fine, she’s bouncing back. Then the other little boy went to grab the toy truck Lila was holding, and she bit him. On the arm. Left a little red teeth mark. I wanted to disappear through the floor. I’ve never had Lila bite anyone before. I apologized a million times, got her out of there as fast as I could, and on the drive home I was replaying it in my head, thinking what kind of mom am I, my kid’s a biter. Then I looked in the rearview mirror and she was asleep, her head lolled against the car seat, and I thought oh. She’s just tired. Her little body just fought off a virus for a week. She doesn’t have the words to tell me she’s worn out, that everything feels too loud and too big right now. So she bites. That makes more sense than she’s just a bad kid, right?
I keep catching myself thinking I should be doing more. I should be pushing her to walk up the stairs instead of carrying her (she’s 28 pounds, my lower back is screaming by dinner time). I should be limiting screen time instead of letting her watch the same Bluey episode four times in a row. I should be cleaning the crumbs off the floor. But when I had COVID two years ago, I couldn’t remember my own zip code for two weeks. I could barely walk up the stairs to get a glass of water. Why did I think a two-year-old would bounce back faster than me?
I just glanced down at Lila. She’s still asleep, that cracker still tucked in her elbow. My husband just texted me, asking if I need anything from the store on his way home. I just texted him back “more Goldfish and a dry red wine.” He replied two minutes later: “You got it. Anything else?” I don’t need anything else, honestly.
I thought when the fever broke, we’d be back to our old routine by now. I thought the hard part was over. Turns out the hard part is just all the small, messy, boring stuff that no one posts about. It’s the crumbs everywhere, the unexpected screaming, the biting, the cold coffee, the laundry that sits unfolded for three days. It’s me peeking around the curtain at the mailman because I don’t want to answer the door with my messy hair and sticky kid.
I don’t have a nice little wrap-up for this. Lila will probably be back to climbing on the couch and stealing my socks and not biting people in a few days. The crumbs will get vacuumed eventually. The wine will get drunk. Right now, I’m just gonna sit here. I’m not gonna move. I’m gonna let her sleep. Normal can wait.
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