It arrived a week ago, this plague-like affliction I’m calling ‘Snotapalooza 2012’. ‘You don’t sound good,’ a preschool mom I ran into at the soccer field told me. ‘Oh, it’s just my throat,’ I pooh-poohed, ‘see you tomorrow.’ At preschool.
We drove home and as I ascended the whopping two steps by the front door, I thought to myself: ‘man, I’m really sore from that yoga class yesterday.’ Forty minutes later we sat down to eat take-out Vietnamese food and all of a sudden the lightbulbs went on.
The throat. The soreness. The rapidly increasing feeling of general un-wellness. I wasn’t sore from too many reverse triangle poses. I was sore…because I was sick. The so-called ‘mysterious case of kraup’ had morphed into four people felled by cold slash flu slash sinusitis-like symptoms.
‘When is this going to end,’ the professor moaned on the seventh day of Snotapalooza, after we’d filled an entire landfill with balled up white kleenexes.
We lay our weary, congested heads upon our pillows. My two pillows, his one. ‘I feel like I’m back in Bolivia, right next to the chicheria,’ he sighed nostalgically, listening to the cacophony of the older boys’ Spanish music CD competing with Percy’s Camp Lisa CD.
‘Why are you all of a sudden sleeping with two pillows and I only have one?’ he suddenly remembered. ‘Because I’m congested,’ I offered by way of explanation. ‘I’m congested too,’ he protested, ‘what happened to my other pillow?’ ‘The Hen (or was it the Gort) barfed on his pillows (nearly a month ago) so I gave him one of ‘ours’. I’m sure the smell has gone away by now if you want one of those pillows.’
I make a mental note to purchase a new pillow or three (along with another box of tissues) on my next shopping excursion. I interrupt my mental shopping to find my personal space being severely invaded. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, bewildered by the proximity of the professor’s head to my own. ‘I thought we could share the second pillow,’ my better half explained. Taking me back to that awesome night all five of us spent in a Best Western Inn last summer with one queen sized bed and four pillows at our disposal. ‘We can’t share a pillow,’ I refused. ‘But I can’t sleep without two pillows,’ the professor lamented.
Two minutes later he was out.
Just before 2, or was it 3, I woke up to the sound of Percy coughing. I carried him to our bed, thinking I’d rather be lying in bed kept awake by a coughing child than having to constantly get up to check on said coughing child.
Minutes later I realized the boy had actually coughed up chunks of his sweet potato fries. From dinner. In my bed.
If only I made this stuff up.