Anatomy of a Baby Sick Day


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!

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