Happy birthday, Corey,… PART I!
Okay, his birthday is actually the 11th, but in his current part of the world, it will be the 11th in about 7 hours. So, happy 30th birthday, baby! We are actually in the same decade, for another year, 2 months and 1 day. Woot! Party on, Soldier Daddy!
And so it goes,…
Apparently this week is just going to be a neverending parade of children staying home from school. Child #3 has glands so swollen that it feels like he has large Grade A eggs shoved into his neck, which, I assure you, he does not. The resulting voice makes him sound either like a toad on crack or like he is hitting the voice-cracking stage of puberty,… at the ripe old age of 7. Maybe not. And Child #4 is making a repeat visit to the Land of Sick, this time with a fever of 101.8°. So, at the butt crack of dawn, I headed to the store before Donovan’s bus came to stock up on the standard products necessary for the care of sick children,… apple juice, applesauce, Tylenol, cough drops, and vodka, the latter being for me, of course. Okay, so maybe I didn’t get the vodka, but I probably should have. Child #3 is reclining as a man of leisure on the playroom couch, much like the couch garden (again, too lazy for a single couch potato) that Child #2 was the other day. Child #4 is still earning my resentment, as he is comfortably tucked into his bed, asleep and without a care in the world.
:♥ UPDATE ♥: Child #4 is now awake, with no fever at all, and acting like not a damn thing is wrong. What the hell?!
In this house, even getting my mug of life’s blood coffee is an adventure. Being in a pre-caffeine fog, I set my empty mug on the counter next to the fridge while I dug out the cream. As I turned back to the counter, a giant ball of black & white fur hurtled through the air, aiming itself like a missile at my mug. With catlike reflexes (and a whole helluva lot of luck), I caught my mug mere inches from its destruction on my floor. Using non-family-friendly language, I discussed the situation with my cat, expressing my displeasure at his behavior. In the manner of cats around the world, he appeared to be completely unbothered by my dismay and merely looked at me in his oh-so-superior way, as if I were the one with a brain the size of a walnut. As I continued to express my ire to him, it occured to me that he might be right in that I may very well be an idiot, as I was continuing to talk, out loud, to a cat. I blame it on the lack of caffeine and being the mother of testosterone-filled little people. Moving on. I picked up the as of yet unopened bottle of Amaretto cream, which had landed on the floor during the mug rescue, and set it on the counter to open it. It had one of those little foil seals on it and the archenemy of my chemo-weakened nails. So I use teeth. As I had it up to my teeth, peeling the sucker off, the giant ball of black & white fur once again hurtled through the air and hit me straight in the chest. The foil came off with a jerk, and a generous helping of cream went flowing straight down into the cleavage, pooling helpfully in my bra. Great. All I wanted was a freakin’ cup of coffee. Not a battle of wills with a feline devil cat. But at least my boobs smell good.