That Time Our House Became An Infirmary


I feel like this blog needs a narrator, who can say (in his deep, narrator-y, James Earl Jones voice), “When we last left our hero…”  Because, “Hi.  My name is Mama, and I used to blog here fairly regularly, but then Christmas vacation hit, and all I know is that my pile of dirty laundry is big enough that even I’m starting to feel some anxiety about where the clean socks are going to come from.”

I can’t even remember WHERE we last left off with our hero here, but I’m fairly certain it was after Christmas, so I’ll just tell you this:  New Year’s Eve came upon us.  Our family had been invited to two family-oriented parties that night, and we had decided that we’d hop around to both of them, because we felt that the appetizers were going to be phenomenal at both places.

I’m all about the appetizers.

And that is when Hubs announced out loud that he really wasn’t feeling well, and boom!  He found himself in bed with a fever of 101.4.  He also had the chills to the point where he was in bed, with the electric blanket on and exactly four EXTRA blankets piled on top of himself, and he whispered to me, “Do we have any other blankets in this house?  I’m freezing.  I need more blankets.”  I felt horrible telling him that we were experiencing a blanket-deficit, because he already had them all in bed with him.  Our bedroom also felt like a furnace, because Hubs had secretly turned the heat up and cranked that electric blanket to NUKE MYSELF TO GRAY ASH.

So, the boys and I decided to just stay home for New Year’s Eve.  I waved goodbye to an entire evening of delicious Lil’ Smokies and almond-encrusted cheese balls and bacon-wrapped asparagus, and I took the boys to the grocery store, where I told them both, “You can pick out whatever you want for dinner tonight.  It’s New Year’s Eve, and Dad is sick.  We’ll just cook whatever you boys want.”

Sticking to their high-class roots, the boys dove right in to their meal planning.  The boy chose two cans of Jolly Green Giant Creamed Corn, which he didn’t even want warmed up.  He ate it exactly like they do at the finest restaurants in Paris — straight out of the can, with a spoon.  Thing 2 chose a loaf of French bread out of the deli, and he ate four slices of it for his dinner.

I have no idea where these boys and their weird taste buds came from.

We told Thing 2 at 7:45 that it was midnight!  YAY!  IT’S MIDNIGHT!  And then we put him to bed, because he can’t tell time.  The boy and I watched a little TV together, but we tended not to agree on a show, because HGTV doesn’t excite him, and I couldn’t get myself in the mood for a reality show about setting traps in the heart of a dense forest, with some hopes of catching Big Foot in a net.

So then I checked Facebook, and I actually laughed out loud.  It wasn’t even an LOL, where I CLAIM that I laughed out loud but DIDN’T.  It was an honest-to-goodness, gut-busting laugh, because look what my friend, Brittani, re-posted:

1475942_10152712345560000_2429012286667367060_nIt’s exactly like Ellen knows me.

And then there was THIS picture posted on the “It’s Like They Know Us” page on Facebook:

10898208_916206378392470_7449034613128220122_nThe caption read,












Happy New Year to everyone who used to do stuff.”

Between those two pictures, my entire life is summed up.

I was sound asleep by 10:00 on New Year’s Eve, which is a lot longer than I expected myself to stay up.

On New Year’s Day, the boys and I left a still-sick, still-at-101.4-degrees Hubs in bed, and we drove out to his parents’ house, where we met his sister and our ten-year-old niece for a brunch of homemade Belgian waffles.  People!  They were more delicious than any missed appetizer the night before could have been.

And then… because it’s just how we roll… THIS little cutie…

IMG_1074 IMG_1351

… woke up from his nap on New Year’s Day with a temperature of 103 degrees.

And THAT, y’all, has been my life for the past endless string of days.  I’ve had a husband who stayed in bed for four days and didn’t eat a single morsel of food.

(It should also be noted that Hubs lost NINE [!!!!!!!!] POUNDS in four days.)

(I hate him.)

I have spent the week with Hubs proclaiming, “This is the sickest I’ve ever been!  Do you hear me?  I’ve NEVER been sicker!  I’m so close to death,” and with Thing 2 barfing in his bed and getting up at 4:30 in the morning because HE’S AWAKE!  AND HE DOESN’T FEEL ALL THAT GRANDLY!

I won’t lie.  Even though I (So far!  Thank you, Jesus!) haven’t come down with any of Hubs’ or Thing 2’s crud, I still managed to stay in my pajamas and be completely unshowered for the past three days.

I’m pretty sure that I looked like someone needed to hand me a couple of dollar bills on a street corner and say, “Get yourself a cup of coffee, Girl, and then push your shopping cart over to a shelter and take a shower!”  All we have done is hang out in our petri-dish house and introduce the boy to Lost on Netflix.  I’m ashamed to admit that we watched the entire first season in two afternoons, and we’ve caused the boy to become an addict.

(Don’t tell him that the grand finale episode, some six seasons later, is the worst episode of any show that’s ever been aired on TV.  We don’t want him to feel like he’s about to waste his life watching a fantastic show with a horribly confusing, THAT WAS IT? type of ending.)

(Not that I’m still bitter about the way Lost ended.)

I am happy to add, though, that Hubs seems to be feeling remarkably better after I convinced him that YES, IF YOU’RE THISCLOSE TO DEATH’S DOOR, YOU NEED TO SEE A DOCTOR.  He was just going to deal with his illness like any mountain man would do… by lying in the woods, watching the vultures circle and pondering the biggest Big Foot that got away from him in the spring of ’04, and how differently his life would have turned out, had he bagged that beast.  Instead, I hauled him in to see a licensed physician, and BINGO!  He was diagnosed with a wicked sinus infection and a touch of the stomach bug, and here’s some real antibiotics and something for all that nausea you’re experiencing!  And?  Wouldn’t you know it?  The man has recovered.

You’re welcome, Hubs.

As for Thing 2… well… his turn for the doctor is about to come around tomorrow, because my best guess as a frequent WebMD-checker is EAR INFECTION.

And now?  Well, at precisely oh-eight-hundred-hours tomorrow, our family must re-enter polite society.  We’ve got our checklists ready… Everyone needs showers; everyone needs their teeth brushed; everyone needs to wear something other than pajama pants and old T-shirts from their college days.  Plus, we’ve promised to examine each other’s hair and make sure that YES!  WE GOT THAT MOP COMBED DOWN.

And it is time, people.  It is TIME for us to get back in the world where people leave their homes and do things.

Otherwise, we’ll just end up watching season two of Lost in one sitting.

Y’all have a good Sunday evening.

1 thought on “That Time Our House Became An Infirmary

  1. That whole sickness thing. Isaiah puked his guts out 5 min before we left for Church on Christmas Eve. I sat there in the dimly lit church with a sick boy and a puke bucket. Oh, and he woke up with a 101.8 fever on Christmas morning. Merry Christmas to us.

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