As I laid on my deathbed contemplating where I could find the most peace in my house to recover from this recent illness, I realized that none existed. I’d be more relaxed trying to dodge traffic on my bike in New York city while wearing a blindfold.

I’ve said before that my kids don’t let up. Their intensity hardly dips below 100% during their waking hours.  Their limbs (and vocal cords) are constantly in motion.

The kids have been sick since before Thanksgiving. Has that slowed them down? Nope. They’ve caught multiple versions of cold and flu. They hack up shades of yellow and green with little regard for where it lands. (We have a daughter that thinks every tangible object in the world is a potential food source.) It’s no big deal when they’re the only ones coughing and sneezing.  Since November, it’s been a daily contest of “Who’s produced the most nasal juice today?”, “Who’s coughed a phlegm ball the farthest?”, and everyone’s favorite “How many boogers can you wipe on someone else today?”. (Yes, my usage of punctuation makes logical sense.)

As fun as those games sound, they’re surprisingly not. The kids don’t wash their hands often enough and we adults don’t wear Hazmat suits in the home. I’m constantly wondering whether the wet spot on my face, hands or clothing is water or a bacterioviral mutation of a disease destined to have me spewing liquids from every orifice of my body. (Yes, that’s gross.)

I finally succumbed. With a 103.1 degree fever and chills that three layers of winter wear couldn’t quell, I could barely hold my own head up for the past few days, let alone my body. While I couldn’t see straight or stop shivering, Worm still HAD to climb on my neck and treat me as his human horse. He didn’t care that my brain cells were frying inside my head. My punishment for not carrying him? Asphyxiation by his oddly effective chokehold and a severing of our best friendship. My punishment for carrying him? Mushie’s NEED to hitch a ride, too!

Being sick is not what it used to be. It’s misery now. The days of being able to rest and recover are over. Now I know what other parents mean when they say “We’re in survival mode.”. I get it now. I’m John Rambo in First Blood. Maybe I should go sleep in the woods…

The Midnight Plot to Keep Honeydaddy Sick Forever

The Midnight Plot to Wake Honeydaddy Up and Surprise Attack Him with Germs

Gavin – 38; Honeydaddy – 22 (I’ve survived the onslaught of your microbial attacks, Worm! Thank you garlic and oranges!)