I’ve been trapped indoors with 3 sick children for going on 6 days now. My sense of humor has taken quite a hit. And my sanity is nowhere to be found.
Last week, Emme woke up complaining of a scratchy throat. We never know when to really believe that she is truly sick. Sometimes a scratchy throat is her feeble attempt to score a cup of crushed ice. Something her dentist has recommended she not eat. Since she dearly loves crushed ice, she has been known to play the sore throat card.
But I wasn’t playing.
“No, Emme you cannot have any ice.” She clutched her throat, gargled a pitiful moan, and fell to the floor. This scene was replayed a couple more times during the day, and each time Fiddledaddy walked past me with, “I hope you see yourself.”
By days end, I came to the realization that she was really getting sick. And then Jensen had joined in on the action. He had physical evidence. His nose was running like an open faucet. Which became a exciting and fun game for him. The rules were something like, quick, stick your tongue out to slurp up the boogers and run like mad when Mommy chases you with the kleenex. Most rounds, he won. Honestly, I think all of his brain cells were running out of his nose as well.
But then, I was a notorious booger consumer in my youth. Or so I’ve been told.
By the next day, all three of them were hacking, coughing, and spewing snot all over the place. I placed us all in quarantine to end the suffering as soon as possible. Well, the suffering of those outside of our home. Socially, we have a very busy Thanksgiving week, and I’m squirting X-Clear into everyone to aid in the process of healing.
Fiddledaddy was not immune to the contamination. He came down with this plague on Friday. But he’s out of the mix since he had to work over the weekend. But he’s no trouble since he actually wipes his own nose.
The same cannot be said for the rest of the family. I’ve become nothing more than a human kleenex. Which makes no sense really. I mean, I go the extra mile to purchase the really good soft tissues. With added lotion. The anti-viral ones even. Those have to be softer than my grungy old t-shirt.
My favorite moment in this whole debacle happened Sunday morning. My alarm clock was a very dramatic Emme, waking me out of a wonderfully sound sleep with, “MOM! COME QUICK! CAILEY’S CHOKING.” Using the same tone she would use if she were saying, “MOM! CAILEY’S ON FIRE!.” I flew out of bed and down the hall in three bounds, fully prepared to perform the Heimlich Maneuver, a tracheotomy, or last rites. Whatever the situation called for. Cailey was fine. Just coughing up a lung. She has two.
Really, it’s a small miracle that I haven’t caught this thing. Yet. But I don’t look any better than the rest of them. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Evidently, when quarantined, I forget how to use mascara, and haven’t seen a tube of lipstick in days. Also, my beloved Chi has sat unused, collecting dust, under the bathroom counter. In other words, I have witches hair.
The only thing that has saved me has been the children’s stash of Halloween candy that they’ve completely forgotten about. Out of sight. Out of mind. Sometimes their pea sized attention span works in my favor.
Mommys can’t get sick, it’s in the by-laws. If I go down, the whole ship sinks. So, I’m off to pop a few Vitamin Cs. Followed with a Hershys Kiss chaser.
Never underestimate the healing properties of chocolate, I always say.