I’ve dragged my carcass out of bed to post this today. I’m sick with the flu. This of course means my two boys are running the house. I need prayers… and perhaps some tranquilizers. For I still will never understand why they must sprint everywhere they go like military cadets while speaking at the decibel level of military drill sergeants.
This morning, day five of this wretched bug, I told the boys that once again I needed their help. Despite being so sick, things have gone about as well as can be expected as I try to take care of three kids while curled up in bed. I am not sure if in fact they are behaving better or if I just don’t care. Either way, I told my boys that they had to help me with their sister. They had to get along. And above all, they had to leave me the heck alone.
In response, part of the morning, all three sat in bed with me, each with their own little activity.
My toddler and I read a little. My youngest son sang songs. And my oldest counted his money (he just got a dollar last night for his second lost tooth). He’s eager to take his stash and buy a toy F-16 jet at Phoenix-Mesa Gateway Airport (known to my boys as simply the fighter jet airport), where we often go to watch planes fly in and out.
At one point, my toddler slipped out of the room and headed down the hall. I asked my oldest, who was busily tallying up his treasure trove, where his sister was. He sat up with an alarmed look on his face, and said:
“Oh no. I will go find her. Taking care of Avery is more important than money.
“But can you watch my money for me?”
Meanwhile, my youngest son crawled up to me and said:
“Oh, Mommy, it’s true, you’re going to die.”
He’s been expressing this concern for the past several days. I keep trying to allay his fears by reminding him that, though I may feel really bad (and apparently look it), I will get better. This is just the flu, and it takes time to recover.
I don’t think he’s convinced. Earlier this week, I opened my eyes to find his little face with this cute little mouse ears peering down at me. He once again asked if I was going to die, to which I said, “No.” But he pressed further, bracing himself as if he feared the worst in my answer:
“Do you have diphtheria?”
Thank you Amblin Entertainment and your movie Balto for introducing my son to this disease.
I’m sure he’s worried that I’m doomed, seeing as how we don’t even own a dog that can go get us antitoxin.
Well, I’ll settle for a Coke Slurpee if anyone wants to volunteer. I will cover the cost for the hazmat suit rental. And, about those tranquilizers…