It starts with a dribble of snot licked away from a thoroughly chapped upper lip. Oh crap, that forehead is so warm and balmy. Your tummy hurts? Like you’re hungry or like you have to — OH GOD, RUN!
I’m doused in hand sanitizer and baby tears before I even have time to say “acetaminophen.”
Because our sick day (and night) has robbed me of the ability to connect coherent thoughts, and because all I can think about is how to go about swabbing this keyboard I’m typing on, I will simply share with you the running commentary and thoughts from my bacteria-addled mind throughout our day yesterday:
7:45 a.m.: “Frozen,” again. YES, I’ll take it. Just sit there and marinade in your germs while I make this grocery list. You know, Christmas is only two days away and the in-laws will be arriving in less than 24 hours so we’ve got to get cookin’!
8:57 a.m.: I just put hand sanitizer on my neck. DON’T SNEEZE ON THE BABY!
9:24 a.m.: You want MY pillow? To bury your snot-soaked face in? Do you know where we keep the matches for when you’re done?
10:10 a.m. update to husband at work: “She is literally crapping her face off. I don’t throw the word ‘literally’ around lightly. I mean she’s crapping so fast (SO FURIOUS) that I just saw a face in her diaper puddles. Twice. Call it the TURDIN SHROUD, yeah?”
10:28 a.m.: Drink more water. But not each other’s. I think that’s a rule.
10:45 a.m.: Thinking about taking a shot of rubbing alcohol. Is it still considered a screwdriver if it’s pure ethanol and orange juice? DON’T MAKE THE BABY HOLD YOUR KLEENEX!
11:18 a.m.: When I say “cover your mouth,” I don’t mean “take the edge of the wall in both hands and pound your sneeze into it like it stole your WWE unitard.” I don’t think we’re going to make it to the grocery store.
11:20 a.m.: Quit poking the baby in the face with your sick breath!
11:21 a.m.: Your finger is not snot-absorbent. You need something more like — NOPE, NOT THE BABY’S HAIR.
12: 45 p.m.: If you don’t blow that nose, I’m going to have to suck it out myself!
12: 47 p.m.: It’s a bulb aspirator, not a chainsaw up your nose. GIMME DAT SNOT!
12:49 p.m.: Why wasn’t I born one of those hardcore women who can stomach the Nosefrida??
2:34 p.m.: Yikes, short nap. So much anger. So much moisture on that pillow.
2:59 p.m.: When did I give them Motrin? If I gave them acetaminophen five hours ago, and the train is moving at 35 mph, carry the seven, can I mix in some ibuprofen?
3:12 p.m.: No one will ever know which Christmas cookies that just happened to.
4:15 p.m.: It’s seeping through my finger cracks and onto the carpet. You wiped it on the wall? GUYS, THIS HOUSE IS A RENTAL.
4:26 P.M.: Google: Effectiveness of 2014 flu vaccine. When to call the pediatrician. Bubble suits for infants.
5:05 p.m.: Can I spray Lysol directly into my eyes?
5:23 p.m.: Who would be victorious in a bacterial showdown: the pediatrician’s floor or the mall play place? Either way, we lost.
6:13 p.m.: No, you cannot have egg nog and raisins for dinner.
7:04 p.m.: You are not on the Polar Express, and what you just did was not “The first! Poop! Of Christmasssss!”
8:47 p.m.: Can I get into the shower with all my clothes on?
9:19 p.m.: Now I lay me down to sleep… That’s a booger.
9:23 p.m.: Not morning yet, go back to bed. OKAY, you can drip sickness into my hair and breathe into my ear all night. Hop in. I love you too.
10:00 p.m.: Do I feel balmy to you? I feel balmy!