Black Hawk down!
The distress signal is out.
I caught Hubs’ Man Cold on Wednesday afternoon, and it has sucked the life force right out of me. I feel like I’ve been beaten like a poorly-behaved circus squirrel, and I’ve done nothing more strenuous than soak my head in buckets of NyQuil all weekend. I can’t breathe, and I have successfully worn the entire protective coating of epidermis plum off my face with all the nose-blowing.
Charmin is now on my list of people to write to. They insist that their product is the softest thing going, but the nose on my face that looks like a dog’s rawhide bone is probably going to call up a disclaimer on their part. I gave up on boxes of tissue sometime on Thursday, when I was suffocating on snot and able to empty a box in twelve minutes flat. I wasn’t merely blowing my nose; I was qualifying for a race time. I’ve been packing around the Charmin Double Rolls all weekend, and I’m about ready to discard even those and just dig the beach towels out of the linen closet.
In comparison, Hubs woke up on Friday morning and announced, “I am as tough as a guy can be, without being in prison. There’s simply nothing I can’t smack down right now!”
So that’s what I have had to work with all weekend, people.
On Friday, my sweet mama had a birthday, so Sister and I cooked her dinner at the Jedi Manor.
Actually, Hubs grilled steaks and chicken breasts, while Sister made a giant salad and baked some French bread. I watched the asparagus boil. Does that count as cooking? I was primarily using the steam off the stovetop as a method to open up my sinuses and bring cherished oxygen into my body.
Regardless of the fact that I was hovering on the brink of a Sinus Infection Coma, the birthday dinner for my mom was a smashing success.
And then I went to bed at 8:45, which is really an improvement from last Friday night, when I convinced the boy to go to bed at 6:30 and got into bed myself at 6:45. I made it another two full hours, and I did it under the influence of NyQuil, to boot.
After a very sleepless night, where I tossed and turned and brought fourteen different pillows into the bed, in an attempt to create a 72% incline so that gravity would pull the snot down while I dozed, I finally crashed hard somewhere around the four o’clock hour. I was in a fog of cold-medicated dreamland, so imagine my surprise when the boy poked me in the shoulder at 5:45 and said, “My blankets are in a knot in my bed. I can’t straighten them out, and I’m freezing, so I’m just going to soak in the tub for a while.”
I rolled over and asked Hubs, “Was it your idea or my idea to become parents? I’m so sick, I don’t even remember which one of us thought it was time to bring a new bundle of joy into our lives ten years ago, but if I find out that it was YOU who initiated the thought, I’m going to poke you in the eyeballs later.”
And with that said, I sort of tried to doze in bed, but dozing with the Man Cold is almost impossible when nine of your fourteen pillows have fallen onto the floor, and your incline is at 18%, and you can’t even muster the grit to bend over and pick the pillows up to improve your lot, because bending over causes all the snot to rush to the forefront of your face, making your head feel like it could very well explode.
At precisely 6:30 Saturday morning, the boy emerged from the tub and announced at my bedside again, “Hey, Mom! I fell asleep while I was soaking in the tub, and I dreamed that there were Legos selling for a great price on eBay!”
With that, I stumbled out of bed, propelled him back to his own bed, flapped his blankets all over the place, and, while pointing, said, “Get. Back. Into. Bed. NOW!”
And do you know what that boy said to me?
He said, “No, thank you.”
This was not one of my finer parenting moments, as I simply said, “You either get back into bed now, or you can sit on the sofa for the entire Saturday, staring at the wall.” I like to think it was the NyQuil talking, because I cannot even fathom the torture it would cause ME to have the boy sitting on the sofa all day long, doing nothing. Clearly, this was not a well-thought-out discipline plan. The boy, realizing that you never mess with someone who has been kicked around by a cold like a poorly-behaved circus squirrel and who is under the influence of NyQuil, simply obeyed.
And he was asleep five minutes later.
And we ALL went back to sleep until 8 AM.
At 8:30 AM, while I was still in my flannel pajamas and sitting upright on the sofa myself, staring at a wall and drinking a cup of hot chai tea, I made the firm decision to bail out of our dinner plans for the evening.
Exposing my own family to the wrath of the Man Cold is one thing, but we were supposed to have dinner with our friends, John and Peggy, and I decided that Peggy would probably break up with me, if I brought the germs into her house. I was also sure that John didn’t want to have me sit on HIS sofa all evening, while he was forced to listen to me moan. And weep. And sigh. And try to catch the Snot Train before it derailed and landed on my shirt.
And then Hubs and I had planned to have a few people over for the great big football game this weekend, so there were a couple more phone calls which went like this: “Yeah, don’t come to our house tomorrow for the game, on account of you will catch the Plague, and you will be dead.”
So I simply spent the entire day working on my Bible study homework, soaking in the tub, drinking hot beverages, wrapping the heated rice bag around my head, and proclaiming to Hubs that my current state of affairs was all his fault.
And then! THEN!
Our friends, Gabe and Jodi, called, and Jodi said, “I just made an enormous crockpot full of spaghetti sauce. Do you guys want to come over later for dinner?”
I simply said, “I have the most aggressive strain of the Man Cold known to modern scientists. I’ve never endured a sinus infection of this magnitude before, and I’m pretty sure my head is going to explode before too long.”
And Jodi said, “Oh! Actually, I guess we don’t have THAT MUCH spaghetti sauce. On second thought, this sauce is barely enough to feed my own family, so we’ll just call you another night when we actually DO have a lot of sauce.”
So, with no dinner plans at all, Hubs and the boy and I bundled up and we ventured out into the snow to go see our nephew, B, play hockey. I decided that being upright was the only answer to a state of semi-breathing, and that my germs would be blown away in the wind, if I stood just right, so that no one would catch the Man Cold. So off we went.
B is ten years old; he is exactly, to the day, seven months younger than the boy, and they have always been great little friends. And listen, people. B can play some hockey, and his skating abilities seem to indicate that maybe the Colorado Avalanche should just go on ahead and hire a skating instructor for their boys.
Naturally, I took my new camera, because, SICK OR NOT!, this was a prime opportunity to play with the action setting on it!
I love that you can see the boy watching the game through the glass in this next snapshot!
The boy and M swindled Papa out of money for the junk food machine, where they helped themselves to Skittles and cookies, and they smiled great grins of happiness.
Eventually, I had to give up being outside, because the wind was blowing my hair into a knot that only Ratatouille himself would have been happy with, and I had lost all feeling in my face. The boy was happy to zip inside with me, on account of HOT CHOCOLATE!
And then, before the game was even finished, I announced to Hubs, “Listen. I have to go to bed. I can’t breathe, I think I’m feverish, and my head is going to explode, if I don’t get some more NyQuil pulsing through my veins soon.”
So that’s how Saturday panned out for us.
This morning, we went to church, even though I felt like I was hovering near death’s door, and my friends, Amber and Abbey, sang a song for the congregation right after Communion that was so incredibly wonderful and beautiful, I started to bawl.
Emotional Church Bawling + Raging Sinus Infection = Just Walk Out of the Sancturary
People! I had to leave and go collect myself in the bathroom, and use an entire roll of industrial-strength toilet paper to blow my nose into, which ripped into the raw skin on my face even more, and then I was sobbing because HURT! HURT! HURT!
I was a vision, rest assured.
And then we came home, and I soaked in a hot tub for two full hours, until I was wrinkled like a discarded raisin, and then I sat in the recliner with the hot rice bag wrapped around my head, while I shouted out, “Boy! Boy! Come microwave Mama’s rice bag for another two minutes!” all afternoon.
And I watched, for the first time ever, a show called Toddlers and Tiaras on TV, and SWEET MOSES! There are some dysfunctional mothers in this world pushing their babies to be beauty queens. My eyes were opened to a whole new level of weirdness.
…the Super Bowl.
Which I have been sporadically watching this evening, WITHOUT guests, which is actually a really good thing, because I have made eighteen hundred and four trips upstairs to blow my nose and wash my hands, and that’s just a certain level of ugliness that your friends simply don’t want to see.