It started with a cough.
Innocent enough, that little cough. Could have been from anything, really. Water going down wrong, a stray crumb.
But it wasn’t. It wasn’t a stray crumb. It was the fall-approaching-back-to-school-crud.
It’s a jip, really. I feel that if my stepchildren can’t live with us full time, I should at least get the gift of skipping the second grade mini-mono. Or, even as a stocking stuffer (you know, rather than a full on gift) perhaps it could avoid arriving on our four day weekend. Especially the last weekend I get with my husband before he jet sets off to Colorado to do some training for two weeks, and leaves Scoob and I with nothing but our cuddles, snotty tissues, and HGTV reruns.
The sickness fairy, however, (who I picture with a huge wand of mucous) has whacked us all squarely on the head. She didn’t seem to hear my vitamin and eight ounce water pleas. And the kicker? Scoob is acting fine. I mean, I know he’s sick. He’s got snot everywhere, and the volume of his breathing level rivals the vacuum. (No, really, I tried it. I can still hear him.)
On the upshot, yesterday I cleaned the entire house, did seven loads of laundry and mowed our half acre. Seriously. I figured that if we were going to be sick, we might as well be sick in a sparkly clean house. Somehow, I feel better about being sick in a clean house. I suppose it’s because I don’t feel the urge to get as many things done. I think I may have some sort of compulsory disorder. But that’s another doctor’s visit.
Anyone have any suggestions on how to beat the doldrums-o-illness? I mean, besides subjecting my eleven month old to various episodes of “Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock”?