Excuse me while I empty my head of the vileness that has taken up residence in that space that once housed my brains.
Aaaa-Hem. Arrghughpgh. Hork. And my lungs.
Ourhouse is not a happy place to be this week. There is snot-a-plenty, though. And my little man, D is a very happy sharer. We are up to our weepy eyeballs in moist, productive "coughees" and sore throats. Also some low to moderate fevers but I can't say how high because someone has done something heinous to the ear thermometer and it has not been seen since. The other thermometer is not near as reliable; beeps willy-nilly just to get out from under an armpit and has been known to completely disregard searing baby skin while belligerently reading 97.8.
Our WonderSitter also has the pestilence so the MIL is in the house. Note: Please, do not take any of this as anything other than the rantings of an overworked, ill mother who is tired of being tired. Also of snot and medicine and cooking for kids that won't eat and having to cook at all when I'm sick, damn it! Why is everything a competition between a MIL & a DIL? Is it destined to be so?
If I cook something that she also makes I have to hear all thru the meal how SHE cooks it & how much Daddy-O loves it that way. If she cooks dinner... well, then the whole meal is a colosol fishing expedition heavily seasoned with exaggerated tales of other "fish" caught with her food.
If Daddy-O refers to me as "Mom" he is met with an indignant co-answer to my own and an explanation that SHE is his mother and how was SHE to know he wasn't talking to her.
I know. I know. But I honestly can't imagine myself acting that way with my own boys when they are grown.
Maybe I won't feel this way when the fog clears...