The entire crew at the Jedi Manor, save for me, has been sick. Their lists of symptoms aren’t pretty either.
2. More snot
3. The snot that won’t quit
4. An inability to move oxygen into the body, due to all the snot
That about sums it up. The boy and Thing 2 have bounced back quite nicely, because when has snot running down a chin EVER slowed a boy down? There are sticks to throw in this world, bowls of cat food to eat, and afternoons to spend running through the snow with your buddy, Quinn. A little snot isn’t going to shut their weekend down.
And then there was Hubs.
Hubs came home at noon on Friday, put on his Denver Bronco pajama bottoms, and got into the bed. And then he fell asleep. And if that doesn’t spell out I HAVE A MAN COLD, AND YOU’D BEST NOT WAKE ME, BECAUSE WHEN YOU DO, I WILL SPEND THE ENTIRE AFTERNOON WHINING, I don’t know what does.
At some point on Friday afternoon, I made Hubs a bowl of Ramen noodles. Because I went to college for four years, ALL THINGS RAMEN is something that I can handle. In fact, I’d go so far as to say, “I feel quite competent with a package of Ramen noodles in my hands.”
(Plus, Taco Bell had bean burritos in 1992 for 59 cents, but I couldn’t help Hubs out there on Friday, due to inflation and the small franchise’s right to jack their prices up and overcharge you for a flour tortilla shell filled with beans.)
(Somewhere, a Mexican mama of eight just clutched her heart and gasped at the absurdity of it all.)
Two minutes after delivering the Ramen noodles to my bedridden patient, he walked into the kitchen and announced, “A good nurse would have given a dying man a Coke over ice, too.”
And that’s pretty much the exact moment that Hubs’ nurse turned in her resignation on Friday and spent the rest of the day looking at Pinterest and encouraging the baby to eat no more than two pieces of cat food at once. Choking is ugly, and with a nurse who walked out on the family, I didn’t want to waste precious time searching Pinterest for a pictorial lesson on HEIMLICH MANEUVER FOR BABIES.
On Saturday, our niece, Miss A, turned eight.
Brother and Brother’s Wife threw an all-you-can-eat taco buffet lunch for Miss A, and we partied like it was 1999.
Except it was 2012, and we only partied half of the afternoon. Miss A’s brothers had hockey games, and Hubs wanted to go home and see about getting an oxygen tank delivered from an in-home nursing service, so that he could breathe again.
Thing 2 spent a bit of time rearranging Miss A’s bedroom, and then he offered to organize her closet for her.
And then Thing 2 said, “Cousin A? I’m trying to be helpful here, but I’m not sure if this fancy sock is DIRTY or CLEAN. I’ll just taste it for a bit until I decide whether it needs to hit the dirty clothes or be folded and placed in your sock basket.”
Miss A loves clothes. She received several new outfits as gifts this year, and she immediately skipped off to her bedroom to try them all on. She modeled them for us. She made comments about which tights she’d wear with which tunics. She contemplated which top she’d wear to school on Monday. Of course, this required her to try a few tops on TWICE, just to make sure that her Monday outfit was nailed down tight.
In contrast, the boy refuses to go shopping for new jeans with me, so I haven’t bought him any. He has approximately two pairs of Levi’s and one pair of Under Armour windpants that fit him. Everything else in his closet puts his ankles on display and screams, “I CAN WHIP YOU AT CHESS.” Hubs and I have told the boy that his pants are getting too short. His solution was to just wear shorts to school. In the snow.
Apparently freezing his legs is preferable to willingly walking into a dressing room downtown.
Personally, I love that Miss A is concerned enough about her hair going up in flames, that she held it all back while she huffed and puffed and blew out the flames.
She has NO IDEA about flammable hair situations, because she didn’t live during the Great Overuse of Aerosol Aqua Net days of 1987. In the late ’80s, we blew our birthday candles out from across the room.
And then, because the wind was blowing so hard, it was snowing sideways, and the temperature with the windchill was one hundred degrees below zero, the kids skipped running around outside. Instead, they hauled out every manner of electronic equipment, wirelessly networked them all together like the little electricians this generation is, and challenged one another to video games.
She speaks MY language.
On Saturday night, the boy and Hubs made me watch the first Iron Man movie. We all laid on our bed and watched the flick on the big screen in the bedroom, while we ate popcorn.
I woke up this morning with a popcorn hull embedded in my thigh, because I apparently slept on it.
All night long.
This might be a new low point in my life.
Sometimes family time can be painful, though.
This morning, we found out that HUBS IS BACTERIAL! We know this, because his medical lab-owning parents did a blood draw on him. I thought the fellow was going to do backflips, as he enthusiastically yelled, “I’m bacterial!”
And then he looked at me and said, “I’m going to the walk-in clinic and asking for antibiotics, because I’M BACTERIAL! I’m not viral! I need medicine! Medicine kills bacteria dead! And I’m going to tell the doctor that I want THE VERY BIGGEST antibiotic on the market. I want the pills to be so big and powerful, that I have the diarrhea for two straight weeks.”
People want to be me.
I sleep with popcorn pieces stuck to my leg. My baby eats cat food. My twelve-year-old would rather wear high-water pants than venture into a store and try new ones on. My husband isn’t afraid of medicinal side effects, in the name of killing bacteria so that he can breathe again.
I wouldn’t trade a single one of those three boys, either. They are my sunshine.
I hope y’all had a fantastic weekend, too.