Look at my boy’s perfectly pouty lips. Too bad I can’t say the same thing about my own. Cold sores, the bane of my existence, strike again this week. Where I would normally only get one or two a year, this latest one makes three (!) in the seven short weeks that comprise my young son’s life. Just as I am getting over one, another one invades, keeping me from kissing my incredibly kissable husband and son and terrorizing me with the fear that one day I will contaminate them both, much as someone contaminated me as a child.
So as I come to the official end of my post-partum period, when everything in me should be healed, I remain plagued, and with the monumental lack of sleep and stress that comes with motherhood, I fear I will remain so for a while.