‘Tis the season…for awful germs and illnesses that is. My son Joey began throwing up Sunday morning, while we were an hour from our home at the beach, and the poor kid continued to puke for another 10 hours. I had spoken to the doctor, and being seasoned at this type of illness would normally not have called, but Joey couldn’t keep even teaspoon of fluid down and hadn’t peed in nearly 10 hours. I was getting ready, under advisement from the doctor, to take him to the ER, when he finally used the bathroom and drank a few sips of juice that stayed down.
Anyway, the last few days have been bad. The sick kid is currently quarantined to his bedroom, and either too sick to leave or is enjoying the TV and Wii in his room for the time being. I have gone into a frenzied state of sanitizing, wiping and re-wiping common surfaces and hoping for no other new patients from this terrible bug. My OCD is in overdrive (I even wiped this keyboard before typing this post), and I feel as if it’s me versus the unseen forces causing my children to be sick. I’m not sure who’s winning, but I’m giving it my best crazed-cleaning attempt.
This afternoon, when my daughter went down for a nap, I got Joey in the tub and emptied the kid’s laundry for another load to be washed on sanitary (thanks LG for such a wonderful setting). I reached around Joey to shut off the tub water off just as Joey went into a sneezing/coughing fit and the kid sprayed the front of my shirt with boogers (did I mention the cold/flu symptoms started with him yesterday just after his stomach seemed a bit better-good times people, good times). Since I already had the laundry basket right there, I took off my shirt, told Joey I’d be right back (relax, he’s five and I can leave him for a minute) and I went to take the laundry downstairs. Just as I cleared the landing, I tripped on a misplaced toy and literally threw the basket of germy kids sheets and clothes down the remaining seven stairs. Fortunately, or unfortunately because I could use a break, I caught myself after tumbling down just a single step.
As I began picking up the contagious sheets and clothing of the foyer floor, my mind was already thinking of spraying the carpet with Lysol “just in case.” Perhaps this is why I did not hear the Fed Ex truck pull up outside. See where this is going, people? A few loud, abrupt knocks and I turned, startled, and found myself staring into the eyes of a Fed Ex Delivery Man through the skinny window next to my front door. I yelled screamed, and he threw a gloved hand over his face and ran down my steps. I stood, shirtless, covering myself with a germ infested pillowcase, and pondered throwing myself down the stairs again.
At least this wasn’t the UPS Delivery man who Jake casually told I was shitting and unable to come to the door last summer (you can read that one here), and this was also not my normal Fed Ex guy. They’ve had several drivers a day come through my neighborhood given the time of year, so hopefully, in a few weeks, I’ll never have to see him again. Of course, if a stranger was to see my shirtless, I wish I was at least wearing a nice bra (my husband may dispute that). I had on one of my oldest, used to be white but was stained off blue in the wash, just around the house, barely holding on Mom-bras. Sheer Hotness. That’s surely what he’ll call me as he tells his Fed Ex friends what he saw today. And honestly, I was a tad disappointed once I found a new shirt and went to retrieve my delivery, to find just my package, without a tip, sitting on my doorstep.
Have a tip for me? Leave me a comment, I’d love to hear from you!
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