Welcome to Chest Cold City.
I feel like my head has been wedged between a front tire on the Suburban and the pavement below, and my chest is full of the ick. The good news is that I had a cup of NyQuil for dinner last night, and I just passed out cold. I slept like a baby.
(Except really? Slept like a baby? WHEN did that phrase become synonymous with HEY, I SLEPT GREAT? Because at OUR house, sleeping like a baby means that you may be up sixteen times over the course of the night, and you may just throw your leg out of the crib slats, clear up to your hip, and then your bones may wrench themselves out of the socket when you roll over, which will make you scream for one of the grown-ups in your life to HELP! HELP! MY LEG IS CAUGHT IN A BEAR TRAP!)
(But honestly? I slept like the NICE KIND OF BABY last night. Like the kind of baby who just nestles down into her crib and sleeps quietly all night, and doesn’t feel the need to toss and turn like a honey badger digging a hole.)
This wasn’t all that great for the boy, though. He needed help with his science fair project (It was the typing part — the part I can handle!), but I had to tell him, “Mama took some coughing-aching-head-fever-congestion-makes-you-feel-like-you-didn’t-just-smoke-twenty-six-packs-of-Camels-in-one-hour medicine, and I’m having a difficult time even focusing my vision on your face right now. Mama needs to lie down.”
So I did. I got into bed, and that was pretty much the end of the story until morning, because NyQuil equals anesthesia, without the IV and the outrageous anesthesiologist’s bill in the mail.
(And also without all the puking, because the anesthesia and I are not close friends. It makes me behave like a fraternity boy on a Saturday night. It makes the doctor say to me, “Um… if you can’t STOP ALL THE PUKING, we’re going to admit you overnight, even though this was just a simple, out-patient procedure.”)
So that is pretty much why I have nothing to write about tonight. And I know that there are MANY NIGHTS when I have NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT, and yet… somehow I manage to ramble on for 1,400 words anyway. But tonight, I just don’t have the strength. I want my afghan and my fireplace. I want my NyQuil and my Sudafed and my cough drops. I want some piping hot chai tea.
So that’s it for tonight, people. We’ve got some science fair stuff to type up, before Mama throws in the towel and gulps the NyQuil down again.
Because if I don’t get the typing done BEFORE THEN, the science fair judges are going to be all, “Whoa, Nancy! WHO typed up THIS procedure and hypothesis?”
I don’t want to have to admit to some 6th grade fair judges that it was the NyQuil typing.
Y’all have a fantastic night, and may the chest cold germs stay far away from your front doors.