I am trapped in a never ending episode of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman and I am Jane Seymour except without her good looks and English accent. And a plague has come to River City and we got Trouble-oh yes Trouble, right here in River City.
I can take the poor chilluns being sick--have learned to medicate them heavily with doses of bubble gum flavored pink stuff, then medicate myself heavily with pinot grigio flavored wine stuff. I have learned how to cope with various childhood illnesses, mastering such phrases as: "Yes, you can watch your 100th video" and "If you feel like you are going to throw up, remember DAD is your go-to guy." I have accepted that my life can at some points seem to go from cough to flu to sore throat to odd itchy rash to ear infection to I ate a piece of gum off the street because my brother dared me to and now my tummy doesn't feel too good Mommy. I have spent many a sleepless night in a cloud of Vicks Vapor and all my tissues are ANTI FREEKING VIRAL. I am no wuss.
But one thing brings me to my knees, makes me long to hop aboard the Magic Schoolbus and just drive off with Miss Frizzle and the gang and never come back. Except I know the Frizz would have planned a field trip into the mucus membranes of my dearly beloved.
Kip is sick. Oh wait, did I say sick? I meant to say ON HIS DEATH BED gasping for breath literally-sounding very much like what I imagine the moans of a menstruating whale might sound like. And I want to be the Better Half that makes him a hot toddy and brings him his slippers, but 85% of me for some reason wants to KICK HIS ASS every time he starts a coughing fit because it HURTS it HURTS SO MUCH and I HAVE A FEVER and COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH. Shush honey, I'm trying to watch American Idol here. Can you go have your pneumonia in the bedroom please???
I am surely going to hell, where I am sure I will meet Satan himself and he will have a touch of the flu and ask me to feel his forehead because he feels like he is burning up.