There are some subjects that we cannot even discuss in tonight’s blog post, because HOW ABOUT THOSE BRONCOS? Just thinking about the overtime ending yesterday is enough to send Hubs into cardiac arrest.
When the game ended last night, and the Broncos were not the ones jumping up and down with enough excitement to kill a buffalo dead, Hubs had some words to say. I can’t type them here, because then we’d need a parental approval rating, but suffice it to say that Thing 2 learned some of Daddy’s very special words, which are only saved for when the Broncos lose their first playoff game of the year.
And then Hubs and his friend, Tyler, decided to go roam the neighborhood, looking for some puppies to kick. All I could say was that Tebow has one playoff win as a Bronco, while Manning has zero. This did not win me enormous points with Hubs.
But the man woke up this morning and announced, “The Avalanche start playing hockey next Saturday,” so I see he’s already recovered and is focusing his attention elsewhere.
In other news, all I have to say is simply this: INFLUENZA A.
The reason that I’m not a doctor is because I assumed that the boy was entertaining a stomach bug on Wednesday night and Thursday. When things got much worse on Friday, I took him in to see our pediatrician. The boy sounded like a seal during a circus performance, as a nice smoker’s cough had settled into his chest. When the cough strikes like that, the boy’s asthma goes haywire. Hubs and I decided that YES! IT’S BEST TO SEE THE DOCTOR. And that’s when Dr. B used tweezers to pull a booger out of the boy’s nose, and then she announced, “Influenza A.”
Which, you know, totally kicked me out of the running for Mother of the Year, ’13 because I’m the sorry sap who didn’t schedule him an appointment to get his flu shot this year.
On Saturday, Thing 2 woke up with the exact same symptoms. Thing 2, who is a mover and a shaker, and who can tear a house down faster than an F5 tornado can, did nothing on Saturday.
What Thing 2 DID DO on Saturday was to lay on my chest, with droopy eyes and more snot than an unlicensed daycare has. He had the fever… the cough… the whole ball of wax. Hubs and I called Dr. B, who assured us that this was probably the same flu virus that the boy had toted home, but that Thing 2 should recover quicker, due to the fact that he had his flu shot at his 9-month well-baby checkup.
At least 50% of my children were taken care of this fall, in regards to vaccines.
Saturday was spent counting out dollar bills for four Tamiflu prescriptions, because Dr. B thought that Hubs and I should armor up ourselves with the medicated protection. Even with insurance paying the biggest chunk, Hubs and I decided that you can either buy four boxes of Tamiful, or you can load the entire family up in first class and fly them to Disneyland for a week.
But the money wasn’t done being spent there on Saturday, because listen. Apparently a family of prehistoric pterodactyls have moved into the trees that line our driveway. This wouldn’t be all bad, because EXTINCT BIRDS! RIGHT HERE! STEP RIGHT UP AND SEE THE FLYING DINOSAURS FOR TEN AMERICAN DOLLARS! But the pterodactyls poop like a herd of elephants was sitting in those trees, and come Saturday morning, they had covered Hubs’ truck one too many times.
And by covered Hubs’ truck, I mean DID A BLUE WHALE HAVE THE DIARRHEA HERE? The whole scene was reminiscent of Drum Eatenton shooting the birds out of the trees for Miss Shelby’s wedding in Steel Magnolias, as Hubs grabbed a soccer ball and took aim.
And then he announced that he’d thrown his shoulder out, but thankfully he just pony-upped and put it back in like Mel Gibson did in Lethal Weapon. A Navy SEAL can’t be running to no doctor for help popping a shoulder into place, when he’s sitting in the brush, waiting to rescue hostages and gets tackled. No, ma’am. Navy SEALS just bite a stick and slam their shoulders against a door frame.
When Hubs ran to the Walmart to get the Tamiflu, he came home with not one, BUT TWO, air soft guns, and he emphatically announced that he didn’t give a rat’s hind end if discharging firearms in the city limits was illegal! Those giant, pooping birds would be dead by nightfall. The boy was plum, flat-out thrilled with Hubs’ purchase, and he rallied enough strength to peel himself off the sofa on Saturday afternoon to help defend our property from the pterodactyls who had it in for Hubs’ truck.
Gun control in Small Town, USA simply means, “Keep it steady, Son, and hit that elephant-sized bird straight on.”
Hubs and the boy may have watched six too many episodes of Duck Dynasty over their Christmas vacation. They simply decided to wage war on the prehistoric, flying poop machines exactly like the Robertson clan would have done.
For the record, Hubs did bring me a grande, no-water chai latte from Starbucks, to compensate for the small fact that he’d just spent a weeks’ worth of grocery money on orange-tipped guns that shoot plastic pellets.
During all of the out-of-season, illegal bird hunting that was taking place on our property on Saturday afternoon, I stayed inside and rocked Thing 2 and whispered, “Please grow up to be normal like Mommy,” one hundred times in his ear.
I am happy to report that the birds live on. Oh, Hubs is a fantastic shot, but apparently the pterodactyls had delegated a pigeon for a spy, and said pigeon reported back, “HE’S ARMED, AND HIS EYEBROWS ARE SLANTED IN THE DOWNWARD POSITION!” That’s when the big birds took to the skies with cackling laughter and left, before Hubs could pull a bead on one of them.
People, we don’t live in the Louisiana swamps and bayous, but sometimes certain folks at the Jedi Manor act like it.
And then there was that raging Bronco loss on Saturday night, which about did Hubs in. We can’t talk about it yet, without Hubs wanting to sit in a corner and cry soft tears. Plus, what with both of our boys suffering mightily from all the Influenza A around here, I had to cancel my appearance in the Miss America pageant and allow my understudy to take my place representing our home state. It’s a crying shame, because my talent wasn’t as simple as twirling batons o’ fire or tap dancing. No, sir. My talent was HOLD YOUR BREATH IN EAGER ANTICIPATION AND SEE HOW TALENTED I AM AT YANKING FIREARMS AWAY FROM BOYS AND HAULING THEM INSIDE BY THEIR EARS WHEN THE COPS CIRCLE ‘ROUND. I’m pretty sure the good Lord would have shown me His favor for that precious ability.
And today… well… Mama used enough Clorox bleach in this house to turn my hands into those of a 98-year-old woman who has dug gravel, barehanded, every day for her entire life. I didn’t have any of those fancy rubber gloves that all the classy ladies are wearing, so I just plunged my hands in and got busy without them.
My house is now clean enough that I could have the Queen of England herself over for dinner, and I wouldn’t worry at all. In fact, I’m quite certain that Miss Elizabeth would say, “Your team of maids is phenomenal! I wish Buckingham Palace could be THIS clean! Tell me… Where did you hire them?” Of course, I would make an honest attempt to change the subject, because TEAM OF MAIDS? Right. It’s a team of one, and her name is Mama. I would simply tell the queen, “Oh… good help is so hard to find these days! But how about the dinner, Miss Elizabeth? Is the Kraft macaroni and cheese up to your standards? I did use the REAL BUTTER when I made it for you!”
At any rate, my house is so clean that I want everyone to move out. I can’t trust the boys in my house not to mess it back up. And! If y’all would like a bit of interesting, informational trivia, guess what I read JUST YESTERDAY on the Internet? (And you know it’s true, because everything you read online is the genuine truth!) Well. I read that a family who employs a housekeeper reduces their stress level by a minimum of 25%. It’s because when the house is clean, the family can spend more quality time together, going to butterfly pavilions and snowy hills for family sledding time. I told this to Hubs… I loudly announced that I knew EXACTLY how we could cut our stress level by A MINIMUM OF 25%, and he told me to go for it.
I think he’s feeling guilty that we’ll be eating water and air this week, but SWEET MERCY! We have some really fine air soft guns in the entryway closet now!
And also? Well, I’ll give credit where credit is due, and I’ll just say that Hubs took his frustrations in regards to birds and orange-and-blue football players out on our bathroom this morning. He scrubbed the master bath down like it ain’t been scrubbed in ages. I’m dadgum proud of him, and thankful to boot.
My only fear is that he’s going to ask me to hand-wash his truck as compensation.
Y’all have a fantastic Sunday evening, and don’t worry about us. The boy’s influenza has run its course, and I think he’s officially back to his usual, ornery, joke-telling self. Thing 2, on the other hand, is still a victim of all the snot and the red, droopy eyes and the fever, but I suspect his Tamiflu is going to kick in like a slap from the Karate Kid any moment now.
Have I mentioned how much I love these two boys? Bedhead and all, the boy loves Thing 2 with a fierce and loyal passion. When he was finally well enough to be up himself, he asked if he could please rock Thing 2 during his flu misery this morning. How could I resist?
Hubs and I are pretty sure we have the two best boys out there.
Even if half of them do take a hankering to just stepping outside to take care of business when the pterodactyls are in the ‘hood.
Phil and Si and the whole Duck Dynasty crew have nothing on us.