epizoots

When I was a kid, it was called ‘having an epizooty’ or maybe ‘the creeping crud’. I remember how much fun it was to be sick for a couple of days, getting to lay in bed and drink hot jello and eat chicken soup from a can.  I don’t remember feeling horrible. i don’t remember aches and creaking and the way even the softest sound is magnified and bangs around in your head like pebbles in a tin can. I don’t remember even  eyelashes hurting, or fingernails, or the hairs on the back of my hands.

The problem with being The Mom, is that in order to have someone to wait on me hand-and-foot the entire day, I have to do it. Don’t get me wrong, Himself does everything he can but he has a job to go to, and the kids are at school, so while I lay in the recliner under a pile of blankets and moan, eventually if I want a glass of cold water or a mug of hot tea, well, it won’t get itself. I suppose it is indeed a very good thing that there are no little kids in the house, only dogs and mischevous (however you spell that) cats.

I remember many years ago, having a bad epizooty and 3 preschool children, including a small infant. I remember laying on the couch surrounded by a pile of Thomas The Tank Engine VHS tapes, and handing them to the oldest, who was 4. He was very proud of himself, for being in charge of the tapes. Cereal boxes provided sustenance, and Himself made up a bunch of bottles for the baby, and the 3 yr old was in charge of fetching them as needed.  One works out systems when one must, I reckon.

Today, tho, and yesterday and beginning the evening of the day before that, I have been laid out flat with the bronchitis. A cough invited itself to stay, like the weird aunt who smells of old cheese and won’t take a hint, right before Christmas. The cough stayed on but I didn’t feel bad. Until the evening of the day before that. Thanks to an hour of walk in visits to the Dr’s office, an antibiotic was prescribed, because he determined that the Aunt That Smelled Of Old Cheese needed to go.

I still feel like crap. Achy, painy, whiney-baby and I just want someone to be here and wait on me, with hot tea and lemon jello and ice water and an occasional back rub.  I don’t want to be 48 today. I want to be 8.

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About rootietoot

I do what I can.
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One Response to epizoots

  1. Bella Rum says:

    I hate respiratory problems. Feel better, Rootie.

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