Here I was, innocently having a weekend, when I sign into my blog and see my husband’s whiney blogpost. The nerve. This is my blog. It’s not Testicular Confessions in My Formula. It’s Frogs, dammit.
Though, thinking back, Chuck’s blog hijack doesn’t surprise me. He and Junior were out of sorts all day Friday—in that late-January, clawing the walls, cabin fevered kind of way. He actually brought Junior to my office at 4 p.m. to visit, just to get out of the house.
I went out to the parking lot to meet them, but it was clear Junior was still sick. His ears and cheeks were bright red. Snot ran down his lip. The only way he was leaving the car was in a bubble.
When Junior heard me tell Chuck he should probably just take him home, Junior flipped.
He started screaming, “I WANT TO GO INSIDE! I WANT TO GO INSIDE! I WANT TO GO INSIDE!” It wasn’t the typical toddler scream. It was bloodcurdling and ear shattering. He was hysterical.
It was awful.
“He’s still sick,” I told Chuck as we stood outside the car looking in at Junior.
“He’s just tired,” Chuck said.
“I WANT TO GO INSIDE! TAKE ME OUT! I WANT TO GO INSIDE!”
“He’s in no condition to see people.”
“He’s fine,” Chuck said.
“I WANT TO GO INSIDE! TAKE ME OUT! I HATE LIVING IN CONNECTICUT! THERE'S NOTHING TO DO IN WINTER! GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER AND MOVE ALREADY!* I WANT TO GO INSIDE!”
The parking lot security guard looked over.
“He needs to go home and rest,” I said.
“He’s just having a moment,” Chuck said.
“I WANT TO GO INSIDE! I WANT TO GO INSIDE! I WANT TO GO INSIDE!”
"If you don't do something soon, I'm going to have a moment," I said.
"Oh no, you don't get to have a moment before I have a moment."
The security guard walked over. “Everything all right here?” she asked, looking at Junior.
I said yes, of course. I was just beating my toddler at my place of work. Was that all right?
I told Chuck he had to see if Junior’s pediatrician would see him again. Junior’s been sick since before Christmas. I couldn’t take any more.
Besides, it was a Friday. Everyone knows what happens with sick children on Fridays: They always get worse over the weekend. It’s an unspoken law. The universe gets off on listening to parents’ frightened calls to the on-call doctor, because the on-call doctor is always the meanest, grumpiest son of a bitch in town. The conversation always goes like this: “So his fever is only 107 and the spots on his tongue are only erupting every two minutes? Grumble, grumble. You’re an idiot for calling. Click.”
So Chuck called the pediatrician, who agreed to see him. But when Junior saw that I wasn’t coming, he started wailing again. So Chuck grabbed me by the waist and threw me in the car.
What fun! An office break at 4:15. No purse. No jacket. No explanation to my boss as to why I’m nowhere to be found.
I won’t bore you with the details of Junior’s visit, except to say that I was right to say we should bring him in. I was right, I was right, I was right.
One shot of antibiotic later, we were all on our way merrily back to my office. (Did I mention I was right?) By then it was almost five o’clock. My co-workers were walking out to leave. I didn’t want to get caught getting dropped off, so Chuck pulled behind a snow mound in the back parking lot. I jumped out of the car, furrowed a hole through the mound and slid across the lot.
I felt like Swamp Thing. I was cold. My bra kept unfastening on me. I had to dive under cars to avoid being seen. I just wanted to go home and take care of Junior.
But. No one noticed I was gone. Not one person. Do you know what this means?
It means I can escape again.
*I may have taken some creative license with Junior's comments. I can do that because this is my blog.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.