Well, I have been playing Russian Roulette with the cold that is circulating. In every one of my PE classes for the past two weeks, the little children have done their level best to cough on me, and they obviously think more points are scored if their cough lands near my face. I’ve been sneezed on and tied shoelaces that were wet.
It’s because the little fellow told me, “I had an enormous knot, so I used my teeth to get it out.”
It was inevitable that the cold would strike me; I was simply a sitting duck, swimming in a pond of germs, knowing that I was going to eventually fall from my tree stump of great health.
I can’t breathe. I cough like I’ve been smoking Marlboro cigarettes since I was nine. I can’t hear out of my ears. My chest is a bit wheezy. It’s all been quite glamorous and lovely, especially when Hubs made the bed this morning and declared, “Well, I just picked up a snotty ball of Kleenex that was under your pillow and threw it away.”
I think it goes without saying that we could be the very next royal family.
I spent the majority of last night trying to find a way to position my head for optimal sinus drainage, in order to breathe. The struggle was real. Gravity was working against me and pulling everything into puddles that simply sealed my nostrils off, one at a time.
And then Thing 2 got out of bed at 2:00 this morning. I heard him open his bedroom door, and… seeing as how I was already awake, not breathing… I got up to see what he needed. I made it to the hallway just in time to see his old diaper bag from a long time ago come sailing right out of his room. It landed at my feet… scared me to death… and then BOOM! Thing 2 slammed the door shut and got back into his bed. When my adrenaline had finally calmed down after having faced off with a flying diaper bag in the dark, I immediately asked the preschooler what he was doing.
“I’m cleaning monsters out of my bedroom, Mom.”
Because of course he was.
At 2:00 in the morning.
I believe that this was the exact moment that the stereotypical, yelling mother showed up — the one who wears her bathrobe with her pink, sponge rollers tied up in her hair, while she shouts at the children in between puffs on her Virginia Slim. I told Thing 2 that it was the middle of the night, and that he was going back to bed, and he WAS NOT to get out of the bed again.
And then Hubs and I listened to him sing to himself until 4 am, from his bedroom. He laid on his bed and sang every song he knew, and then, at 4:00, he shouted, “It’s potty time! I don’t want to pee in my pants like a dumb baby, Mom! I need to get up and use the toilet! THIS IS A GIANT EMERGENCY!”
Even more of a giant emergency than flushing monsters out of your bedroom at 2:00 in the morning?
As soon as he’d used the bathroom, Thing 2 passed out cold. Two hours of choir practice and banshee hunting will do that to a fellow.
At 4:00, I told Hubs, “I cannot face the day without any sleep. I’m taking a tiny Melatonin.” It went against my better judgement, because FOUR O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING IS NOT THE TIME FOR MELATONIN!
I took it anyway, because apparently the common cold has caused my common sense to completely evaporate. And that’s when I fell into the coma-style sleep, where I dreamed that Thing 2 was riding on a conveyor belt on a cruise ship. He had pushed the throttle on that conveyor belt to hyper speed, and he whipped by and shot out of a set of swinging doors, where he plunged right into the ocean in the middle of the night, while the cruise ship went forward without him. I was a screaming lunatic in my dream, yelling for help and trying to crawl over the deck railing to jump into the Pacific myself to save him.
People, the answer is YES.
Being me IS difficult.
So… that’s precisely why this blog post tonight might sound like it was typed out by a girl who went without sleep and then swam the ocean waters at night.
On Sunday, my washing machine broke.
With a full load of clothes in it.
Apparently, the agitator took her last breath and then gave up the ghost of spinning clothes around. And then the drum didn’t drain the water out of it. This left me with a beautiful load of half-washed clothes that weighed more than an entire elephant family combined, because WET JEANS CAN BE USED IN CROSS-FIT WORKOUTS, PEOPLE. They are HEAVY.
Having your Whirlpool die is exactly as lovely as coming home from work to see that an enormous sink hole has opened up beneath your house, sucking the entire thing into the ground, so that you’ll be wearing the same clothes you have on now… tomorrow, while you make numerous phone calls to your insurance company. Thing 2 and I spent much of Monday morning this week in the laundromat, trying to take care of business, until our washing machine can be looked at by someone other than myself, who understands mechanical issues. I understand semi colons and sentence diagramming; I don’t have any theories on the cause of death of an agitator.
If y’all haven’t spent some quality time at a laundromat lately with a preschooler, I highly recommend it. I think Monday morning went as well for us as it would have for Princess Kate and George and little Charlotte, given the same circumstances.
While I was busy with our clothes, Thing 2 was busy… exploring.
Primarily, he explored the insides of all the washing machines, much to the horror of the older man who was there, who insisted that THIS MIGHT NOT BE THE SAFEST ACTIVITY.
“Sir, you should see his Japanese knife skills at home, where he cuts zucchinis into paper-thin slices for the sushi!”
We can’t stand sushi at our house, because the word RAW should never be combined with the words MEAT OF ANY KIND. We’re fickle, like that.
Thing 2 just uses the blades to slice up the fully-grilled, up-to-temperature steaks.
Later, Thing 2 crawled into the top-loading machines, but listen. All he was doing was SINGING into them, because he is all about the echo.
It didn’t take him long at all to realize that the further into the machine he went, the bigger the echo became. He sang every single song he knows off the K-Love radio station inside those washing machines, all while balancing himself on a metal cart with rollers.
Hubs and I are convinced that this child is going to be a worship pastor, because he sings his little heart out for Jesus. His favorite song right now is the Newsboys’ Guilty.
Then our son took his musical talent to the next level, as he sat upon the floor — YES! HE SAT ON THE LAUNDROMAT FLOOR, BECAUSE HE’S THE SECOND CHILD, AND BECAUSE I WAS SO TIRED OF BEING IN THE LAUNDROMAT AND SO WAS HE, AND THAT’S WHAT THEY MAKE CLOROX FOR AT HOME!!! — and drummed on the front of a washing machine.
It was the song of his people.
He made a joyful noise unto the Lord.
The ONLY items that he dropped were my dishcloths, that will be used to wash our dishes and kitchen counters with.
And then, we laughed at this next picture…
… and we sent it to Hubs. It’s because my kid is sitting on a machine right in front of a sign forbidding him to do just that.
I took my child home, and it’s amazing that I still managed to catch this cold, with all the Clorox and Germ-X and strong soap we used afterward on Monday.
Y’all have a fantastic weekend, and may your agitators agitate in your Whirlpools.