We’ve been sick for 196 days.  Or maybe 4, I’m losing track.  The boys have a weird strain of flu that has only two symptoms: awful stomach cramps and red cheeks.  Tess has a cold and Lucy has pink eye.  The boys run around like maniacs one minute, totally well, and the next are curled up on the couch with terrible pain and red cheeks.  It’s very strange and has earned them an extra long Thanksgiving break.  Peter wrote this note yesterday morning just in case I tried to make him go to school.  Told me if I made him go he’d give this to Mrs. Clark so she’d send him home.  Then I took the wind right out of his sails by telling him of course he wasn’t going to school.  He has the flu.  I can read.

I’m choosing to spend these long days looking for the Vortex.  Somewhere in this house is a swirling mass of air about the size of a dinner plate, I’d imagine, that is a direct connection to an alternative universe.  Lucy knows where it is, she’s the only one, because she goes there all the time and pushes stuff through.  And at the other end is a group of alternative universe mommies who are catching the stuff and saying things like, “Great, more pacifiers.” and “Check out these cute shoes.  Quick, someone try these on little Ginny.”  And I’m hoping that when I find it I can toss some chocolate in and entice them to at least return the shoes.  Cause we need those.  In the meantime we’re not going anywhere.  Except Costco later this morning since we’re in dire need of raspberries and spaghetti sauce, so if you’re going to Costco we promise not to breathe on you.  And we’re going to pick up our grocery order from our staff at Meijer Grocery Express because if we don’t we will surely all starve to death.  And lest you think me the cruelest mom in the world, please know that unless the boys are in the throes of cramps, which last about an hour, they are absolutely fine.  It’s all just a matter of timing.
The boys taught Lucy to do knuckles yesterday, which is exceptionally cute, and nearly makes up for the nineteen new naughty habits she’s picked up this week.  Like this:
Simply pushes a chair up to the counter where I’ve stashed all the art supplies so she won’t get them and begins drawing on the counter which, frankly, is a much better canvas than the walls or the couch or her hands which all now bear marks of her handiwork.  Tess says markers are Lucy’s nemesis. 
18 months is turning out to be mine.
Tess has been waking up at five and asking to be put to bed at seven thirty.  I found her this morning while getting Motrin for Grant, washing her pet marble before putting it back to bed on it’s little barrette bed and covering it with a scrap of fabric to keep it warm.  I’d take a picture of it but Peter dropped my camera and cracked my lens, leaving me with only my telephoto, which means I’d have to go to the neighbors (you know who you are) to get a tight shot of it.  Tonight the marble is sleeping in my room so it doesn’t wake Tess up so early.
The new dryer is still melting polyester, which is everything Peter loves to wear, and I’ve kept my calm with the GE people over several phone calls, but I think I may have called the dryer a bastard yesterday and for that I’m sorry.  It’s just that I’m tired and cranky.  Four sick kids will do that to you.  So this is me.  Looking for my happy place.  And hoping it’s in Joshua cause that’s the book I’m on and I’m going there to look for a little sunshine.  Hoping you find your sunshine today. 

3 Replies to “sick.”

  1. your mother is so dear!
    …and you, poor dear, must not be awake again at 3:57 A.M.
    Tell, the little angels that dwell within your house that a rested mommy is a sunny mommy.
    It's been awhile, and I have missed your musings. I think I'll move Anna MH over and make you my new home page.


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