We may very well be back to normal people around here, because our pantry has been restocked, and there are more items in our refrigerator right now than just the mustard jar and the last dredges of a carton of half-and-half.
I never thought that I’d be excited to hit a grocery store for the big haul, but Thing 2’s RSV and croup, and my subsequent Black Death In My Lungs, has had me inside of our house for eight straight days.
(Minus the hour I spent at parent-teacher conferences.)
(And the hour I spent with Thing 2 in the pediatrician’s office, learning how to use a nebulizer.)
I wrote out our enormous grocery list yesterday like it was a party-planning list for the biggest event of my life. I used my best penmanship. I listed everything that we needed in this house, which amounted to THAT’S A LOT OF AMERICAN DOLLARS THAT WILL BE SPENT TODAY. Yes. Yes, it was. But we were not only out of Pop Tarts and frozen lasagnas… we were also out of laundry detergent, Ziploc baggies, baby formula, diapers and shampoo.
(Which is funny, because I haven’t really even used the shampoo in the last week.)
(Don’t judge me. A sick child and your own diagnosis of THIS COULD BE REMINISCENT OF THE PLAGUE THAT STRUCK EUROPE ALL THOSE YEARS AGO oftentimes results in WHY GO THROUGH THE MOTIONS OF SHOWERING TODAY?)
(That’s why I stole this next little gem from a friend’s Facebook page.)
The boy and I dropped Thing 2 off at Mam and Pa’s house, because Hubs and I have banned Thing 2 from the Wal-Mart. For the record, Hubs and I are honestly NOT people who suffer from germ phobias. We always let the boy play in the McDonald’s playland. Barefoot. If he licked someone’s dripped ice cream off a swing at the park, we tallied it up as extra calcium for the day. But, after Thing 2’s week of THAT IS ONE SICK BABY, and then having our pediatrician tell us, “The RSV virus can actually live on shopping carts for quite some time,” poor Thing 2 has been demoted to the status of I NO LONGER GET TO GO INTO WAL-MART.
It’s what happens when you suck on the shopping cart handle while you’re in there.
(I know that Hubs is reading this, wondering, “So? If I licked the handle on the shopping cart, would that translate into ME not having to ever go in Wal-Mart again?”)
The boy and I systematically shopped every section of the big shopping center yesterday, because my list was so well-done and organized, I had it broken down into SECTIONS of the store.
I blame my OCD tendencies, combined with an excitement just to GET OUT! GET OUT OF THE HOUSE! EVEN IF IT WAS JUST WAL-MART!
And then we came home. We unloaded enough groceries to have seen the Mayflower across the ocean blue. Hubs grilled chicken. I made Brussels sprouts and corn.
We actually live a very glamorous life, when you get right down to it.
And then, regardless of the fact that I suspected my plague was actually diminishing yesterday, I still ended up with a distant cousin to the whooping cough at 10:00 PM, and I had to go out to the living room. I made a nest out of the armrest on the sofa and fourteen pillows, so that I could take full benefit of gravity for all of my mucus cavities.
And then I did not sleep.
Which is strange, because I took my nighttime cough syrup, which clearly states on the bottle, “MAY CAUSE MARKED DROWSINESS; DO NOT DRIVE A VEHICLE OR OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY OR TRY TO RUN YOUR OWN MICROWAVE AT HOME WHILE UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF THIS STUFF.”
Do you know what that is like, people? The cough syrup closed my eyes, to the point that I was so tired, I couldn’t even OPEN the eyes. And then I coughed like a rapid-fire machine gun, while my brain wouldn’t shut off and JUST LET ME SLEEP ALREADY!
So who really knows if the plague is ending at our house? My only advice to y’all is PLEASE DON’T RING OUR DOORBELL AND COME OVER, BECAUSE WE HAVE GERMS IN EVERY SIZE AND SHAPE.
And, because this is one boring blog post tonight that’s covering the same topic of WE’RE SICK! WE’RE SICK! again, I’ll throw in some photos for everyone.
This one is of the boy, giving an interview during the science fair judging. It ran in our local newspaper, because he’s a STAR!
(Or at least his mama thinks so.)
The boy is explaining different antibiotics and sterile techniques and flux capacitators and string theory, and he’s doing a right-smack-fine job in this photo. I know this, because he got first place in his category, along with a blue ribbon and a twenty-dollar bill that had never been folded in half before.
And then he launched himself into the next round of competition, known as the STATE science fair, which JUST SO HAPPENS to fall right on Thing 2’s very first birthday.
Well, Gabe and Jodi passed along a tiny, battery-operated four-wheeler to Thing 2, from their four-year-old daughter. Thing 2 has always been powerfully impressed with it, because he has a Y chromosome which flips out with the words ENGINE and BATTERY and IT GOES FAST and YOUR MAMA MIGHT REGRET HAVING THIS IN THE HOUSE. However, Thing 2’s love affair with the four-wheeler has been one where he pushes it around the house, using it much like a ninety-three-year-old man might use a walker with tennis balls on the ends.
And then the light bulb clicked on yesterday afternoon. Thing 2 put two and two together, and he came up with four, and YES! If I use my right foot and stomp this button, I can drive this bad boy!
And that is how our baby spent the rest of the day. I’m here to tell you that he’s got the MAKE IT GO part of driving down pat. Sadly, his steering is worse than that of a four-feet, two-inches tall, eighty-seven-year-old woman with blue hair and prescription sunglasses that are thicker than my arm.
Hubs assures me that “He’ll get it.” That’s what I’m afraid of. Our boys learn to drive early. The boy was just four when he got his first four-wheeler, and it REQUIRED GASOLINE.
(Don’t judge us. When I realized HOW FAST that four-wheeler could go, I mentally beat myself up for thinking it was a good idea.)
(The boy, age four, was STINKING ADORABLE.)
(Also? YES! HE HAS A HELMET! He was just circling the SOFT GRASS in Grammy and Papa’s yard.)
Is this better? On four-wheeler number two?
The downfall of teaching your boys to drive so early, is that… well… they learn to drive so early, and then they become overly confident in their abilities to maneuver vehicles around. This means that when they’re nine years old and their mother drives her Suburban off the tire clamp at the car wash and starts to cry, because she can’t wiggle the enormous, school bus around in the small stall, he will shout out, “Let me do it, Mom! Get out! I can drive this Suburban right back onto that tire clamp for you!”
Or so I’ve heard. I wouldn’t know. It’s not like this story happened to ME or anything.
I think parents who don’t let their children drive until they’re fifteen are smarter than we are.
So yesterday, Thing 2 took off on the battery-operated four-wheeler (At least we don’t dish out the gas-powered ones until your SECOND birthday at our house!), with Hubs and the boy clapping and cheering him on to racing victory. No NASCAR race has ever had a fan club like Thing 2’s yesterday.
Please join us next week for some driver’s education lessons, as we do sessions entitled LEARN TO STEER and IF YOU LEAVE BLACK TIRE TRACKS ON YOUR MAMA’S WHITE KITCHEN CABINETS AGAIN, YOUR LICENSE WILL BE REVOKED AND YOU’LL HAVE TO GO TO COURT FOR YOUR COMMUNITY SERVICE SENTENCE.
So yes. That’s tonight’s blog post, and I feel like we’ve bounced all over the topic spectrum like a piece of popcorn on fire. We’ve gone from I QUIT SHAMPOOING to I BOUGHT THE FAMILY GROCERIES to LOOK AT MY SCIENCE FAIR WINNER to OUR BOYS WILL BE DRIVING TRACTORS BEFORE YOUR BOYS WILL to OUR BOYS WILL PROBABLY BE IN JAIL FOR WRECKING TRACTORS BEFORE YOUR BOYS WILL.
I’m not even under the influence of my nighttime cough medicine yet.
Y’all have a very happy Tuesday evening.