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On March 24th, my husband and my youngest daughter traveled up to our Nation’s capitol to see The Who in concert. It was to be a real daddy-daughter day…a day off from school, tooling around D.C., topped off with a night of rock & roll with one of music’s most iconic classic rock bands.

They had a great time. The kind of time that they will both always remember. But…

By Saturday afternoon my daughter began to feel ill. By Easter Sunday she could barely get out of bed. Stuffy nose, fever, cough, sore throat; the whole nine yards. I spent the whole day cooking for her Easter dinner and she barely ate any of it.

By the following week hubby had it too…but 10 times worse. His cough was so hacking that he would come close to throwing up. Two very sick family members, both home from school and work respectively…along with me. I felt like a walking target. It was only a matter of time before mommy got clobbered with what I dubbed “The Who Flu.”

But here it is, almost two weeks later and I am fine and dandy, and I can’t help but wonder why. I didn’t even get a sniffle…not a tickle in my throat. Perhaps this was one of those “you had to be there” viruses. Something they both caught in either DC or at the Verizon Center, but miraculously was not transferable to me.

And I’m so thankful. We are super busy at work, and I don’t get sick days. Vacation days? Yes. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to use one of those to lay on my couch with a box of tissues.

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