Is there a doctor in the house?

This morning, my husband, my son and I were all lying in bed, my son in the middle. I felt like hell, my husband felt like hell and my son was alternately snorting mucous, coughing and joyfully belting out a song about Amsterdam. My husband and I stared at the ceiling, dully debating over whether either of us should go to work. (Ragsy wasn't really a question - he's been fine by the afternoon and always fever-free; also, he runs around like a chicken with its head cut off while at home.) Eventually, after taking my temperature multiple times and getting up and down a few times to make sure I wouldn't fall over, barf or both if I tried to stand, I cooked breakfast for everyone, snarfed some down and left about an hour later than usual for Wednesdays.

Work was ok - I spent most of it in a fog, trying to muster up some sort of reaction when I was told I was promoted to Senior Product Manager. A healthy diet of any sort was a bust - I indulged for the second time in two years in a kid's meal at a fast food restaurant, with a kid-sized coke and everything. I'd slap my own hand, but dredging up the energy to care is just too exhausting.

My brain doesn't seem to be working because it's still floating about a foot above my head. My arms are heavy and my face is throbbing. Again, illness is always made worse by pregnancy. I can't tell where pregnancy nausea begins and my infection nausea begins, where prenatal dizziness starts and general cold-related vagueness ends. Oh, well. All I have to do is get through dinner (being hungry makes me want to throw up more) and I can go to bed. Just another hour. I can get through another hour, right? Right?!