Yesterday, I went to the laundromat again, because our washing machine is still sporting a broken agitator.
Sometimes I tend to overreact to things, but owning an agitator that no longer agitates when it’s supposed to makes me feel like this:
But then… I realized that gasping in and out of a brown paper sack wasn’t going to get the jeans washed, when everyone was complaining about WHY CAN’T WE HAVE CLEAN JEANS LIKE NORMAL FAMILIES HAVE? It was time to get the sighing over with, dress up in my fake eyelashes, back-comb my hair a bit and just GO ALREADY.
Thing 2 didn’t seem as thrilled with the prospect of spending the afternoon in the laundromat, like he was last week. He didn’t seem interested in using the fronts of the washing machines as bass drums, or shoving his head into the top-loaders, so that he could sing and listen to his voice echo from inside. I wasn’t too worried, because I had to admit that my own enthusiasm for being there was at an all-time low, especially considering the fact that my liquid Tide leaked down the side of the jug and made EVERYTHING sticky.
And then, people…
… somewhere in the middle of the wash cycle…
… THIS happened:
PLEASE TAKE US TO DEFCON 2, AND SOMEONE FIND US A THERMOMETER.
Right there in the laundromat, at 4:00 in the afternoon, I felt Thing 2’s cheeks after he had fallen asleep, and I realized that they were exactly as hot as the surface of the sun.
I believe the phrase you’re looking for is MOTHER OF THE YEAR.
Hubs ended up leaving work early, so that he could rescue the sick baby from the hard, plastic bench and buy him a Sprite in the drive-thru, while I muscled my way through drying and folding and hauling those six loads of laundry back home.
And THAT is when I managed to get an official reading on Thing 2’s fever.
One hundred and three degrees, even.
In both ears.
Our night went exactly as you can imagine it did, if what you’re imagining is a small four-year-old, who can’t sleep because he’s burning up with the fever and completely uncomfortable. Eventually, he ended up falling asleep in our bed, for the first time in his life. It was like sleeping next to a toaster, as you tried to arch your body and keep away from the glowing-orange coils inside of it. Some of the blankets Thing 2 used have singe marks on them.
This morning, the official reading on the ear thermometer was 103.5.
Thing 2’s breakfast was a big swig of Children’s Motrin, with a Sprite chaser.
I called for a sub to cover my PE classes, and then…
… the boy came out to the kitchen, fully showered and dressed, and announced, “I feel awful, Mom. Awful. I feel like I’m going to throw up, and I’m not sure I can make it through school today. I have a bad stomach ache, and I’m nauseated.”
I believe this is the exact moment that I started humming the chorus from Another One Bites the Dust.
… my day looked exactly like this:
I brought cool washcloths for foreheads.
I brought shot glasses full of liquid Tylenol.
I passed out cough drops.
I tucked covers under chins.
I fluffed pillows when they wanted to sit up in bed.
I offered them oatmeal, which they refused.
I offered them Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup, which they refused.
I offered them fresh fruit smoothies, which they refused.
I gave them freshly-laundered socks when their feet were cold.
I changed channels on the TV, finding the best cartoons the satellite had to offer, and then I went straight for the good stuff on the DVR.
I listened to them whine and moan, and I assured them that they were going to survive, and HEY! LOOK AT MAMA! SHE’S BEEN AWAKE SINCE 3 AM AND SHE’S STILL GOING STRONG!! I then listened to them groan even more about how miserable they were.
And then my mom showed up at 2:00 this afternoon with a Taco Bell bag that made them both grin from ear to ear. Suddenly, these boys who couldn’t tolerate the thought of blended strawberries and yogurt on their tummies sat up and ate the Great Mexican Food Buffet Before Them.
Because honestly? Well, as far as my boys are concerned, Taco Bell and Mam trump all those freshly-poured cups of Sprite, every single day.
Grandmas are just like that.
I know that when I’m sick… even as a grownup… I still want Mam to show up, because she always knows what her beloveds need. So does Hubs’ mama. I think it’s part of the Grandma Code, to take care of their people.
Happy Tuesday evening, y’all. May your germs tonight be very few.