My Toddler’s Still Off Three Weeks After That Stomach Virus, And I’m Tired Of Pretending It’s Fine
I’m sitting on the kitchen floor right now, actually. My coffee’s gone cold on the counter, because I can’t step far enough away to grab it without my 2-year-old clamping his hands around my calf and making that thin, whiny little sob that makes my teeth ache. Three weeks ago, we thought we were done with the virus. He threw up twice on a Tuesday, had a couple days of messy diapers, then the symptoms cleared. The pediatrician said “kids bounce back fast!” All the mom friends texted “you’ll get your house back soon!” And I believed them. I even went out for a celebratory margarita with my sister that Saturday, because I thought it was all over.
But he never bounced back. Not really. There’s this weird lingering fog over him, I guess? I don’t know how else to explain it. Little things that used to make him cackle don’t even get a smile. He used to climb on the step stool every morning to help me pour oat milk into his cereal, banging the carton on the counter and getting half of it on the floor. Now he just stands by the fridge, sucking his thumb, and won’t come near me until I’m done. He won’t touch blueberry muffins, which used to be his entire personality. If I even put one on his high chair tray, he shoves the whole plate onto the floor like I served him something rotten.
Last week I dragged us both to the playground, because I thought fresh air would fix it, right? That’s what everyone says. Sarah, the mom who lives down the street, came over to chat like she always does, asked how he’s been, and I said “fine, just shaking off the last of the virus.” Then five minutes later, a little boy walked over and touched the dump truck he’d brought, and Cole just sat down in the mulch and screamed. Full-body, red-faced, snot-everywhere scream that made every parent on the playground turn and look. I wanted to crawl into the wood chip bin. He never does that. He’s the kid who hands out his toys to strangers, for god’s sake. I ended up carrying him out to the car, his hot wet face pressed into my neck, while Sarah gave me that pitying smile that makes my skin crawl.
I stayed up that night Googling, because of course I did. One article said post-viral fussiness and fatigue is totally normal, can last up to a month in little kids. The next one said persistent mood changes could be a sign of something really bad. I ended up texting the pediatrician at 11pm, panicking, and she wrote back an hour later saying it’s just his little body recovering, his immune system’s working overtime, he’ll be fine. I know she’s right. I know most toddler viruses just leave them a little wonky for a while. But I still lie awake sometimes, listening to him toss and turn in his room, and I think what if I missed something? What if it’s not just the virus? Guilty, stupid little thoughts that won’t go away, even when I tell myself to stop being ridiculous.
I bailed on a playdate yesterday that I’d RSVP’d to two months ago. I told everyone I had a headache, which was a lie. I just didn’t want to show up with a clingy toddler who won’t let go of my leg, and have everyone make comments about how he’s still not himself, and I have to smile and nod and say yeah, he’ll get there soon. I didn’t have the energy to perform normal that day. Some days I just want to stay in my house, in my messy pajamas, and not explain anything to anyone.
I used to be really big on routine, right? Get out of the house by 10am every day, no more than 45 minutes of screen time a day, all that stuff I read in the parenting books. I’ve thrown all that out the window this past couple weeks. Some days we don’t leave the house at all. We build block towers that he knocks down immediately, we watch four episodes of Bluey in a row, I let him eat crackers for lunch if that’s all he wants. I used to judge myself for that. Now? I don’t care. The dishes can sit in the sink another day. The laundry can pile up. If letting him sit on my lap for an hour straight petting the cat is what he needs, that’s what we’re doing.
Last week at the grocery store, the sample lady by the cookie aisle offered him a bite of chocolate chip cookie, which he usually tackles out of her hand. He just hid his face in my shoulder and wouldn’t look up. She said “oh, someone’s shy today!” and I just laughed, but my eyes got all warm and itchy right there in the middle of the grocery store. It’s not shyness. He slept 13 hours the night before. He’s tired. His little body fought a virus, and it’s still tired. No one talks about that part, do they? Everyone talks about the acute phase, staying hydrated, getting through the sleepless nights of throwing up. No one mentions that the weird, draining part comes after, when everyone thinks you’re done.
Today, for the first time in three weeks, he ate half a blueberry muffin. He didn’t shove it off the tray, he didn’t make a face, he just ate it. I almost cried into my cereal. It was a tiny, stupid little win. But I don’t know if that means he’s back to normal tomorrow. I still found him standing next to my bed at 4:30 this morning, holding his worn-out lamb stuffed animal, just staring at me in the dark. I still canceled book club last night because I didn’t have the energy to leave him, and I didn’t have the energy to answer all the well-meaning questions. I’m tired. He’s tired. That’s just where we are right now.
One day he’ll be back to climbing on the counters, stealing my toast off my plate, making a mess of the entire living room in 10 minutes flat, and I’ll probably complain about it. I’ll probably forget this weird, tired little in-between time. For now, though, I’m just sitting on the kitchen floor with a toddler holding my calf, and I’m not pretending anything anymore. It’s fine that it’s not fine right now. (Word count: 1182)
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