The family that gets sick together … well … uses a whole lot of tissue. They do stay together, but only because they get quarantined and no one wants to come near them.
No worries. We don’t want to share our hacking with anyone else anyway. We’ll enjoy it all to ourselves.
The bug has been going around, and it hit our house a bit over a week or so ago. It started with my wife, moved on to my kid and now I’m battling through it. (I’ve also noticed that the termites haven’t been feeling so well and even lost their appetite. It’s quite sad.)
We’re mostly cured, but it’s been a humdinger. Nothing too debilitating or disastrous.
More like disgusting. A lot of runny noses, sneezing and some really bad hair days. (Why does having a cold always take out its full brunt on your hair?)
I’ve found that having a sick toddler can be quite, well, exciting.
Everybody warns you that toddlers will get sick, but nobody ever prepares you for what it will be like — how bad it will be.
Luckily she’s a trooper. She doesn’t mope about or cry, and if not for a few obvious signs, you would have never known there was anything wrong with her. That is if she didn’t sound like an asthmatic walrus, if she didn’t blow out windows with her sneezes and if she didn’t drip from the honker like a running fountain. Check that: Like a dumping waterfall.
It was a constant stream and got everywhere. All over her face. All over my face. Into her hair, acting like some kind of super industrial mousse.
My wife warned me not to say it and that my child will hate me one day for it, but I have to: At one point her hair actually glued itself to her face. Use your imagination if you want a better explanation. I had to “un-stick” it! You think that’s going to be easy to forget? I still have nightmares.
My child is a good way off from mastering the whole sneezing thing. Actually, come to think of it, she HAS mastered that. What she hasn’t mastered is the art of CONTAINING the sneeze. She will sit there in my lap, sweet as can be, looking up into my eyes with those pretty, soft little bulbs of hers, flash a smile, and then with no warning … BOOM! Like Krakatoa erupting. A nasal explosion so powerful that your fillings pop loose. And the spray? Like white water rafting on the Colorado River. It just douses you.
I don’t just need a towel when it’s over — I need a pressure wash. Of course a toddler thinks this is hysterical. I’m slimed, and she’s laughing. She’s laughing!
It’s part of their giving nature. A sick toddler does a lot of sharing. I give her a hug before heading off to work. I hop in the car, start driving off, look down and — OH MY GOD, WHAT’S THAT?!?
What can only be described as alien spawn or a giant slug — I’m sorry to be so gross, but why should I have to be the only one to suffer through it? — is sitting there on my shirt, asking if I can drop it off at the movies.
I nearly wrecked the car! I had to pull over, and I later burned the shirt.
I’ve never experienced anything quite like a sick toddler. Quite enlightening. Quite impressive. Quite … well, she snorted like a prize-winning pig!
Luckily it’s over — the nasal drip has stopped and the nose explosions have ceased. We’re all on the mend, and it’s about time. I don’t know if I could take many more of those sneezes. I sure as heck can’t afford to burn any more shirts.