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| Go lay down, Keely. |
Who didn’t see this one coming?
I got le sick.
Nora so generously gave me her cold- and it mutated into a special blend of adult yuck, fatigue x a trillion, and the whinies. I know that, in the past, I’ve made fun of certain gentlemenfolk and their inability to a) be sick, and b) empathize with those so afflicted. (And it still stands. ‘Cause it’s really, really funny and so often true.) Nevertheless! I’ve outdone myself with the denial, full body ache, and impressive pitch of voice.
I pretty much only get sick once every two years. Here’s my immune system theory: The kids for whom I nanny each have their own school and outside activities. Nora and I get around town a fair bit. P.J. takes the train each day and has a work atmosphere that consists of eighty twenty-somethings who leave for the bar when we’re heading to bed [7:30pm]. That means that, between the three of us, we’re exposed to the personal germs of nine thousand people each day. (Yes, I did take Algebra three times. Why?) I figure my immune system is like a kindergarten class rolling around with a bunch of muddy puppies. In a positive way.
Except that the day after Snowmageddon- and Nora’s raging fever- I started to feel a little sluggish. “Maybe you’re tired,” P.J. suggested. “MAYBE EVERYONE JUST NEEDS TO LEAVE ME ALONE,” I gently replied.
I didn’t exactly have Nora’s temps- but a virus fighting a twenty pound body needs a lot more heat than a virus fighting a…slightly larger body. And here’s a little secret that I just this weekend learned about myself. Here are things I can handle:
-People whom I have birthed yuking on me.
-People of that same category peeing on me- as long as it’s accidental and there is a minimum of snickering involved from all parties to whom I am married.
-C-sections, spinals, blood draws, sleepless nights, and toes broken on the corner of the radiator.
And things that I cannot handle?
-A minor cold.
I rarely demand acknowledgement for the multitude of things I accomplish in a day; for the house, the kiddo, the writing, the questionably clean clothing…but give me a case of the chills and it’s Self Pity City.
I actually lamented to myself that I had managed to brush my teeth and no one even CARED.
This is probably not true. My husband, who has yet to leave me, most certainly does care. He must have missed the toothbrushing memo, though, because he was too busy offering to make me tea. After I spent the hours of 2-4am hacking directly into his ear and muttering that I WAS FINE. (“Well, if you’re up…”)
He then spent the day shoving Vitamin C beverages, hot drinks, and complex carbohydrates into my mouth- most likely to quiet the hive-like buzz of my whining.
But all is well today. Nora’s back to her tornado method of play (the Nornado- how am I just now coming up with this?) and I’m feeling [almost] well enough to fold the mountain of laundry that I consistently piled into the washing machine. I’m not entirely sure why I expected it to Willy Wonka itself into the dryer, but in my fevered haze I just kept on trucking and adding more water and soap.
Also, the detergent cap and dispenser has somehow gone missing.
I’ll bet wherever it is, it’s super squeaky clean.
Maybe even folded!
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