I have two out of three down for the count healthwise—nasty colds and chest coughs and fevers and drippy noses and aches and pains and chills and sweats.
Of course I do.
See Also: Murphy’s Law
Some kids are sweet and cuddly when they are sick. Don’t try to deny it, you guys, I have instagram. I know these things.
My kids are not sweet and cuddly when they are sick. My kids are…kind of assholes. I mean, I get it. When I am sick, the only thing I want to cuddle with is a warm blanket, box of tissues, and the remote.
But these kids.
Their heads hurt, their stomachs hurt, their ears hurt (“You are talking too much, Mama!), their feet hurt, their necks hurt, their brains hurt (“Stop making me think, it’s too painful.“), their fingers hurt, their noses hurt, their throats hurt and don’t you dare come near me Mama, I am in pain and you don’t even know what kind of pain this is get me to Betty Draper’s fainting couch right away.
They are hungry, not hungry, hungry, not hungry, hungry, not hungry. God, Mama, why don’t you know whether I am hungry or not?
AND WHY DON’T WE HAVE CHICKEN SOUP OH MY HEAVENLY DAY THE WORLD IS ENDING.
They need a hot drink. But not that hot drink. Or that one either.
They want to watch television. But not this. Or this. Or this either. I don’t like this show turn it off, turn it off why aren’t you singing Soft Kitty to me?!
They want the red medicine. No, the purple one. No, the orange one. Oh, wait, “who are we kidding, if you want me to take medicine you are going to have to pin me down oh mother of mine but maybe if you go to the store and buy the only one that you didn’t buy, I’d be happy to put away the fifteen different liquid and chewable pill options that I refuse to ever take ever.”
They can’t possibly go to school today.
They are basically Peggy Ann McKay.
Or maybe they are…me.