I'm still sick. I don't know if it's the flu or what but the hairs on my head hurt. Junior's sick too. I now know what a fever looks like as it moves into a toddler. In a matter of 30 minutes, he went from a normal Junior to a 103-degree lethargic Junior. It was like a mini storm front. Then he puked on me.
Why doesn't he ever puke on Chuck?
I think it's because he knows I'm a fellow puker. Thanks to my ability to acquire every stomach bug known to man, I puked my way through elementary, middle and high school. We kept a sleeping bag in the bathroom, just for me. I have a thing for cold floor tile. I'm not kidding: When you've dry heaved for 12 hours straight, cold floor tile against your cheek can be a beautiful thing.
The diamond imprint is an added bonus.
I had hoped to top last year's birthday bonanza with something fitting for number 35, but it looks like it's lozenges, Robitussin, Kleenex, Vapor Rub, chicken soup and vitamin C for me.
And I'm corn-ully okay with that because at least I'll be celebrating with the people who matter most: the cast from Freaks and Geeks (Chuck bought me the set for Christmas. It's hilarious).
P.S. Have you ever puked while holding someone who is also puking? I feel oddly connected to Junior, in that Siamese twin kind of way.
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.