GERMS.

A brief update on my absence.
First, I hope you all had a fabulous Thanksgiving full of stuffing your faces with food, your hearts with love and your eyes with men in spandex chasing a ball around for TWELVE HOURS.  Also, there was a parade and a dog show.
I am vehemently opposed to traveling now that we are parents.  I firmly believe that our decade of traveling child-free all over God’s creation for things has allowed us to meet the “travel for bat mitzvahs” quota, and we are now allowed to stay home for all religious and Federal holidays.  However, sometimes family says things like, “We’re having Thanksgiving here!” which means we can either make a pizza, or drive.  And so, we chose to drive. (WE ARE NO LONGER DRIVING, FAMILY…MARK MY WORDS)
We loaded the car (barf) hopped on the interstate (double barf) to drive to the East Coast of Florida (triple barf).  We were in the car about 45 minutes before Miles actually did barf (there’s a theme here…) and we had to pull over in the middle of Billy Bob’s Swamp Safari (this is a real place in Florida, GOOGLE IT) to clean up said barf.  I am a fully prepared mom; Miles was cleaned up, and I changed him into non-vomitus clothing.  I am not, however, a prepared spouse (or person in general) because I did not have spare clothes for myself or my husband.  I also had vom all over my right sleeve.  After 30 roadside minutes of plastic bags, wet wipes, towels and “is it in my hair?” we loaded up and did the only sensible thing: turned around and headed home.  No way could I spend the day in vom.
Side note: Miles was fine – no fever, no illness.  We’re thinking he got carsick from “reading” his books while on the interstate.  Although this has never happened before, many of my older and wiser (read: more vomit-experienced) mom friends have assured me that sometimes kids just puke for no reason.  So in that way, kids are like my cats, and I can claim that being a Cat Mom was excellent prep for being a People Mom.
We got home, removed the carseat and all barf -overed items from the truck, and started laundry.  I gave Miles a bath.  I gave myself a bath.  We watched the parade.  We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  Then, two hours later, we loaded up and hit the road again (you can see why I hate traveling for holidays, right?) Only this time, we left at naptime, which ensured no puke.
Thanksgiving Day was great; we did miss seeing my in-laws, but we made it to my parent’s house and spent the afternoon stuffing our faces.  We made a round trip since Evan was working the next day, so around 8pm we loaded up.  Miles promptly fell asleep; not from all the turkey, because in true toddler fashion, he ate dinner rolls and yogurt.  The drive home wasn’t too bad.
That night, I begin feeling congested.  By Friday morning, I’ve lost my voice, and cannot breathe.  Do you know what’s great about being preg and having a cold?  You can’t take any cold medicine.  I must rely on my hippie instincts of herbal teas, Ricola cough drops and holding my head under a towel over a boiling pot of water to drain the snot that was clogging all of my face holes.  It was glorious.
Note: I do not get a flu shot.  I like to live on the edge.

Note: I do not get a flu shot. I like to live on the edge.

Once you become a mom, you’re always on call.  I remember being sick before having kids, and it was NBD to lay on the couch for twelve hours watching Bravo, drinking Gatorade and eating chocolate covered pretzels (cure for the flu, duh).  But now, other people remain dependent on you regardless of your green-phlegm-athon.  And so the two day cold you experience pre-family turns into a monster week-long cold, even when you’re taking full advantage of your son’s three hour afternoon nap every day of the holiday weekend.  And OF COURSE it occurs on a holiday weekend because I have stupendous preg mom luck.
After Miles realized that mom’s voice was gone for a quite some time and that we weren’t just playing a new game, he began to speak to me only in whispers, since that’s how I was talking.  And man, that kid is so cute, he makes my heart (and phlegm) melt into a big green pool.  He also kissed my “head owie” when he saw me rubbing my temples from the massive sinus headache (BECAUSE I CAN’T TAKE ANYTHING – DOCTORS, WHERE ARE THE PREG MEDS?!) Even though I coughed up my right lung no less than a dozen times, we still ran around the yard and slid down the slide and built forts with pillows and blankets because that kid is awesome, and spending the day coughing/blowing my nose with him is far better than a day of good health alone. 
Confession: On Saturday when we played trains, I did lay on the floor to catch a ten minute catnap while telling Miles that “mommy is the track today!”  CHOO CHOO, I’m smart.  
So being sick kind of sucks, because I can’t breathe, I live with a humidifier in my face, I smell like Vicks and sometimes when I cough, I pee a little (this may or may not be preg-related)  BUT, I’ve found that being sick isn’t like, totally terrible.  Here are some of the pros:
  • Because I currently cough like a 60 year old barfly who smokes three packs of Virginia Slims a day and drinks G&Ts for breakfast, people generally leave me alone.
  • Efforts at looking “decent” and “presentable” and “showered recently” are not required.
  • Sometimes my lack of voice slips into sexy Kathleen Turner territory.
  • I can blow a snot rocket eight feet if needed.
  • Teachable moments for Miles: how to blow your nose, why we don’t wipe our noses on our sleeves (oops), covering our mouths before unleashing a spray of phlegm in our five foot radius.
  • I can snore louder than my husband.
So the carsickness wasn’t germ-related, but this Walking Dead Plague funk I have most certainly is, and I’m blaming it on all of you people who live north of Atlanta that feel the need to travel to Florida for our winter.  Can’t you stay home?  Or at least leave your germs at home?  It’s not MY FAULT you chose to live in a frozen tundra.  There isn’t enough green-earth friendly-non-toxic disinfectant in all of the Seventh Generation conglomeration to keep your snowbird germs at bay.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be buying stock in Ricola, pretending to work with my eyes closed and trying not to pee my pants.  
Hack cough,
K
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