Oh, generous spirit of NaBloPoMo, be lenient with me today as I offer up this measly post. For today has been one spent caring for a sick child and an even sicker husband (who although feels like shit, still looks gorgeous. I mean seriously. When I'm sick, I at least have the decency to look sick. Sheesh.) It has involved endless loads of towels, cleaning up vomit (sometimes out of carpet), and Lysol (which I hate and don't believe in, except when a stomach bug is floating around and then I have to fight the urge to coat everyone in full-strength bleach).
Whenever an adult is sick in our family, it leads us to remember two family stories. The first happened when I was a teenager and my father was sick. He groaned and shuffled his way down the stairs to find my mom and I in the kitchen, where my mom was making dinner. He asked what we were having. My mom said, "Soft tacos." To this my Papa moaned a little and stated that he had never had soft tacos. We tried not to laugh in his face.
The second involves me. This happened long before children when Erik and I were in our mid-twenties. I was sick. It had come on hard and fast and Erik said to me gently, sweetly, helping me into bed, "Baby, I think you have the flu."
To which I replied, in all seriousness, "I don't have the flu, YOU have the flu."
I meant it too.
In some wicked twist of fate I had a mom's night out scheduled tonight with some women I adore from the girls' school. They will eat Tex-Mex, drink different versions of margaritas, and a couple of them will say something so dirty it might make someone else pee their pants.
I will put everyone to bed, eat my weight in chips and homemade guacamole, and drink a sorry excuse for a cocktail in their honor.
It won't be the same, but tonight, it might just be enough.
Genre and Nonfiction
20 hours ago