Have I ever mentioned that I love my kids? Has it come up once or twice? I cannot recall, on account of I’ve had about 3 hours of sleep all night, broken up into half-hour segments. I may have covered this before. But I do. I really, really… Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz….
Would anyone like some Earl Grey? I just drank a couple of mugs’ worth, and next I plan to immerse my eyeballs in it. (“Earl Grey? Really?” “You’re soaking in it!”)
Okay. I’ll just apologize in advance. My cohesiveness is still in bed. Weeping, no doubt.
I am so disturbed that my Google Ads are all about puking, now. I’d like to talk about something else, maybe get the ads to change, but there’s not much else to say. The puking, it is here. It is mocking me.
BUT. Half the fun is just waiting for the time bombs! Yes! Here I am calculating, as I absently pat the child crouched over the porcelain bowl and try not to focus on the fact that, you know, he appears to have just thrown up his toenails. Let’s see… ex got sick Saturday night. Monkey got sick Monday night. That means Chickadee should succumb Wednesday night, if not earlier…
… and there goes Thanksgiving. Fabulous.
And poor Monkey, he’s missing his Thanksgiving program today. He is heartbroken. Who will say “T is for Time to be together??” Perhaps the entire class will wander around, aimless and irrevocably splintered, because Monkey is not there to tell them they’re supposed to be TOGETHER!
In the meantime, do not mind me as my hands bleed all over the keyboard. They’re a touch dry, you know, as I’ve washed them approximately 7,391 times since last night. But I am not complaining! That’s what I tell Monkey as I’m spraying him with Lysol and swaddling him in saran! “I am not complaining, and neither should you!” Then I told him to stop that gagging and fetch me another beer!
Totally kidding. I am not consuming anything, lest I be the next to succumb.
Except that I need to take my antibiotics and this lovely arthritis medicine that is currently keeping my hands and knees working, and if I take those on an empty stomach they will eat a hole through to the outside, hence the Earl Grey. And a piece of bread. And a whispered prayer that I do not see said consumables again.
But seriously, who am I to complain? Is there anything more pitiable than a small child who is so miserable? And I have to tell you, Monkey is SO GOOD. I lost track of the bathroom trips last night but I didn’t have to clean up a single mess, first of all. He hustled himself in there each and every time. And each time he was in there, a touch of whimpering was the most complaining he did. “I don’t like this,” he commented between heaves, around 2:00 or so. “Oh baby, I know,” I answered as I rubbed his hot little forehead.
My favorite was the time I heard him scrambling into the bathroom and I arrived to find him pulling down his pants. “Mama, I think I have to–” and I swear to you that child was only a millimeter away from his bottom hitting the seat, and he executed a flawless ninja move wherein he stood, turned, flipped the seat up, and bent the other way all in a blink. Before I was even all the way through the door he’d hurled again, then executed the move again perfectly in reverse and plopped his rear down onto the seat.
Even the Russian judge gave it a 9.8.
So then he was sitting there, poor thing, spewing from the other end (sorry), and I’m helplessly sitting on the floor, patting him, offering water to rinse his mouth, generally feeling like a lousy mom who cannot soothe her sick kid, and for about half a minute, after he was done, we sat there in silence while he struggled just to remain upright in his fatigue. I was about to offer to carry him back to his room when he straightened up.
“Mama, what do you get when you put two trapezoids together?” I peered in him in the semi-darkness. Was he… hallucinating? Was I?
“What, honey?” I patted his cheek and he impatiently swatted my hand away, rapt with urgency.
“TWO. TRAPEZOIDS. You put them together, on the long sides. What does it make?” I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. It was the middle of the night, and if I’d spent my night as he had, the only thing I would be asking anyone would be if they had a gun to shoot me in the head. But he NEEDED TO KNOW. About the trapezoids. Naturally. I was still trying to catch my breath as he continued. “I think it has six sides. What’s that one called? With six sides? A sixagon?”
I think I snorted a little.
“That’s a hexagon, honey.” He brightened.
“Oh yeah! A hexagon! That’s what you get from those two trapezoids.” I muffled my remaining chuckles in his hair as I leaned in to give him a kiss. “What about an octagon? What do you need to put together to make one of those?”
“Uhhhhh… I’m not sure, baby. How about you try to go back to sleep, and we can work on that in the morning?” He agreed, reluctantly.
I tucked him back in with his blankie and his puppy and his bucket, and he yawned. “Don’t forget,” he whispered as I was leaving, “the octagon. Tomorrow.”
Of course, he seems to have forgotten it, for the moment. He’s doing his lump impression on the couch, becoming one with the cartoon channel, and counting the minutes between allowed sips of ginger ale. But I’ll bet he remembers before the day is out, because that’s just how he is.
I think I’ll keep him.