I suffered a cold that seemed interminable and involved an insane amount of sneezing. I swear, I don't think I've sneezed that much EVER.
Fortunately for me, the cold did do me one favor. I was propped up in bed Wednesday night, having just managed to get one nostril in working order and enjoying the long-forgotten feeling of breathing without my mouth hanging open. My daughter started crying, so I said to my snoring husband, "You need to get that. I can't move or it'll all clog up again." To which he probably mumbled something like, "Wha? Huh? Crazy woman."
(I kid, I kid. He's always nothing but sweetness and light.)
Anyway, the poor man then trudged downstairs and began what was the longest night he'd faced in awhile. You see, the cry wasn't a standard, "I can't find my blanket" or "Why didn't you ever come down and give me those promised snuggles, MOM?" or any number of other things we deal with with 2% of our brain before trudging back upstairs and falling back into bed. No, this time it meant, "I've been sick ALL over myself, my bed, and everything around me."
And so it started. I think that in the end, he changed sheets on three different beds and ran at least that many loads of laundry. And that was all before 5:00 a.m., when she did all yet again.
I shouldn't complain, but I wasn't completely unscathed. She did it twice for me the next morning, never quite making it to the toilet either time. But that was all mild compared to the nighttime, so I'm going to keep my complaints to myself. (See that? That was me keeping them to myself.)
Anyway, she was fine within about 12 hours of it starting, and my cold finally, FINALLY let up. Today was looking rosier, so we all made it to a baseball game featuring one of the cutest darn players, if I do say so myself. Whether he was batting or literally flying toward home, his little self made me smile.
I needed that after this week.
P.S. My apologies to the squeamish and anyone who thinks boot stories are totally inappropriate.
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