(Catch up blogs will resume tomorrow, I just had to get this one out of my head)
Last weekend, Dylan developed a little case of the sniffles. I couldn’t tell if she was sick or just had a runny nose from being outside in the cold while we waited for a table at Umami Burger (not worth the way, btw), because she was acting like her normal bubbly, happy little self. Until we got home, when her little case of the sniffles turned into a full blown cold, complete with mild fever, copious amounts of snot, and A LOT of crying. By the next morning, the snot had multiplied, and her poor little voice sounded like Pheobe With a Cold on “Friends”. It was official, she was sick.
Which wouldn’t have been sooooooooo terrible, except that around the same time Dylan’s sniffles started, Tom started complaining of not feeling so top notch himself. Now, for those of you that are married or in a relationship, and have had the distinct pleasure of taking care of your boyfriend or husband while they are sick, you will understand me when I say that I would rather take care of 500 sick infants than ONE grown ass man. Grown men are the absolute worse patients. Even a mild cough is enough to lay them up for four days. Now, in Tom’s defense, he was sick. Not dying, mind you, but I’m sure he felt pretty crappy.
So there I was, sucking boogers out of Dylan’s nose with one of those booger snatchers, and tending to Tom while he sprawled out on the couch. Tom slept a lot, Dylan hardly slept at all, it was magical. I was exhausted, but strangely exhilarated, which might have had something to do with the Emergen-C I was mainlining to keep the nasty stuff away. After a few days, Dylan was feeling much better, and Tom saw that my patience was wearing dangerously thin, so he started feeling much better too, and all was well at last.
And then, Saturday hit. And the cold that Dylan had mated with the cold that Tom had, and laid it’s germy little eggs somewhere in my sinuses. I hate being sick. Like, really, really hate it. Especially now, when I can’t just curl up in bed with a bottle of Nyquil and the remote and wait for the enemy to be flushed out by narcotics. As it turns out, 7-month olds don’t get that when Mommy is crying and coughing and wiping away snot, it’s not a great time to crap so much it comes out the front, back, and both sides of your diaper. I tried explaining it to her, I tried pleading with her, I even tried bribing her with candy, but seeing as how she can’t speak or comprehend and doesn’t know what candy is, none of it worked. She just smiled and laughed and blew spit bubbles, and really, who can feel bad when that happens? Uh, I can.
Thankfully, the enemy did not stay long, and I am slowly clawing my way back to good health. And when all is said and done, it wasn’t THAT bad, I suppose. It definitely could have been worse: I’ve got a friend recovering from pneumonia, which makes my petty little cold seem like, well, a petty little cold. But still. It’s no fun. And I really hope that the next time I get sick, Dylan is old enough to understand and make me a card or help dad with the chicken soup. Or at the very least, not crap all over herself when I want to take a nap.