Do you know what is worse than a sick baby?
Not a lot, but cottage cheese, chicken bones and El Caminos come to my mind.
Because the cottage cheese?
I cannot even watch other people eat it without wanting to run to the bathroom and crouch in front of the potty, just. In. Case. And don’t try to hide it in a lasagne and invite me over for dinner. I’ll know it’s in there. And dinner will be a thing of the past at your house, because I will never trust you again. Who eats cheese that has gone so bad it has curdled itself into little, horrible balls that smell like the feet off of an 8th grade basketball player?
And chicken bones? People, I can’t even talk about those things on the blog. Chicken bones freak me out from hell to Tuesday.
And El Caminos? I’d like to know what man decided that it would be somewhat interesting to make a car that wasn’t really a full-on car, but SORT OF a car and SORT OF a truck. I’d like to grab him by the straps on his overalls and give him a shaking that was hard enough to knock his last few secured teeth completely out of his mouth and say, “Um, no. I don’t care if you DID think it would be convenient to drive it through the backwoods to haul the stolen parts to your moonshine still in.” Because honestly? I’m not even sure that I would actually GO if someone offered me the winning ticket to a fifty-four-million-dollar lottery in Pennsylvania and asked me to drive across the country in an El Camino to claim it.
But fifty-four million dollars? I’m sure Hubs would point a finger at me and say, “Drive that car, Baby, and claim that prize! Daddy wants season tickets to the Avalanche and plane tickets to get there every week!”
I’d put one of those silk scarves from the ’50s over my head and don some enormous sunglasses in an effort to be incognito and completely unrecognizable before I left on the little road trip. Not even James Bond himself would be able to identify me, let alone a Navy SEAL. I wouldn’t want anyone to ever ask, “Aren’t you that girl who passed me on the interstate in the El Camino?”
No. I don’t drive fast enough to pass anyone. It wasn’t me.
Sick babies with congestion and coughs and stuffy noses make my heart split plum in half with sadness. We have one of those at our house right now. He’s adorable, and he cannot breathe out of his nose, and he coughs and coughs and coughs, and he wants his mama to just sit herself down and rock him, back and forth, all day long.
And his mama doesn’t mind, because my heart melts when that little baby tucks his face into my neck and falls asleep while I pat his back.
And I don’t even flinch when he coughs on me. Or sneezes in my face. Or throws up on me. Or drools all over my shirt. Or spits his antibiotic down my hand. Because all of that has happened today. I have been in the middle of ALL THE EXPOSURE TO THE GERMS.
Mamas are quite used to being on the front lines, though, right in the very thick of things.
Which is exactly where I’d like to put an El Camino. Right smack on the front line of a good battle. And I would paint a giant target right on the windshield.
Happy Wednesday night, y’all. I’m off to kiss a chubby cheek and pat a darling little back.