Wednesday, February 13, 2008
We've been sick. It seems that my children will gladly share their fever virus with one another. Some, several times. With each child, it has gotten worse. Especially with oldest child, Trey. He's 39.
Ok, not really. Trey doesn't get sick. If he feels anything abnormal coming on, he just takes 20,000mg of Vitamin C and calls it a day. He won't take any cold medicine and will not, I repeat, will not, go see a ...gasp...doctor.
Last night he was doing the dishes after dinner and I told him to please stop and sit down and rest. Honestly, I did this because I am not the pillar of strength he is. When I get sick, I totally go into fetal position and cannot move out of bed until the storm has passed. I wanted to avoid inevitable guilt that I would feel, mainly due to my Catholic upbringing, the next time I got sick and could not muster the strength to feed myself, let alone do the dishes.
It looks like we're on the mend. You might be able to tell from this picture.
It's been a pretty boring three days home, sitting on the couch with my children nursing them back to health with chicken soup and Gatorade. I'm a traditionalist that way.
We did find a pretty fun game this morning. I'm not sure what to call it so maybe you could help me out. It involves my dog, a hamster, and a rollie ball thingy where the hamster can remain virtually unharmed while the dog bats her around.
You smell goooood.
I think I love you.
I'm just gonna roll you around the floor. Holler if you get dizzy.
(Edited to add...No hamsters were harmed in the photos for this post...Ok people, I did not let the dog bat the hamster around. I'm not heartless, I just took a little creative license with my photos. The pictures were taken just as I was saying "No, Scout!" and she would go lay on her bed. Sheesh.)
I wish we would have had one of these plastic balls when we were pet-sitting Rowdy, the baby bearded dragon, last year. My kids were playing with Rowdy upstairs and building for him the Bearded Dragon Dream House. They put him down on the train table to let him cross the threshold into paradise and, thanks to Scout, he did just that. Scout thought he was a fun little chew toy and grabbed him and ran. My kids were screaming like someone was being murdered, well, because someone was, so I jumped out of the shower to find Scout running around with a tail sticking out of his mouth. The sight of me yelling "DROP!!" dripping wet and naked must have scared the fire out of Scout because she spit Rowdy out faster than a chili pepper.
Poor wittle Rowdy.
He all dead.
We had a funeral in our backyard, complete with a prayer.
Six months later, my kids dug up Rowdy to "see what his bones looked like".