A plague seems to have descended upon my house. Seriously, I am about to go all Old Testament up in this piece and paint our door post with the blood of a lamb.
4 weeks ago, DS came down with a very mild case of Chicken Pox. I say mild because he didn't really scratch them or seem to notice they were there, and was happily running around like a coked up hummingbird inside during his mandatory 1 week quarantine. Joy of joys, ya'll. JOY OF JOYS.
3 weeks ago, I caught the Norovirus after an upsetting incident in a town square involving me being too close to a man very casually and very violently vomiting everywhere, in a very helpful zig zag pattern.You know, to cover as much of the surface area as possible. As one does. This resulted in two days in bed feeling like I was actually dying. Oh, and in case you were wondering if the relentless feelings of guilt and inadequacy of The Motherhood go away when you're very seriously ill and physically cannot care for your child - They Do Not. They increase. Exponentially. With every passing delirious minute.
2 weeks ago, DS, DH and myself all began to fight off various colds and seasonal afflictions, and our house is currently a battlefield of congestion, replete with balled up tissues and strepsil packets.
1 week ago, DS contracted some kind of viral throat infection. I was no longer amused.
Basically, I call bull on these shenanigans, and they will stop.
Oh yes, they will.
X
No comments:
Post a Comment