This morning Merrick and I are home sick.
And by that, I mean that Merrick is supposed to be ate up with fever and too wretched and ill to move.
Yet instead, this morning, I have chased him around the house and cleaned up mess after mess after mess. (I love it, but that’s beside the point.)
Kid, listen. You have a temperature of 101. Your ears are bright red and it’s possible you need prescription medication. Mommy didn’t sleep more than 20 minutes at a time last night because of your constant whimpering in your fitful sleep. We’re tired and miserable, remember?
To Merrick, being sick means this: waking up before the sunrise. Eating ice cream for breakfast, because, yes–mom is weak-minded and vulnerable in the wee hours of the morning. Being sick is screeching at the top of your lungs when you’re not allowed to put on sister’s make-up. It’s pouring cups of water in the doll house while mom is in her bedrooom getting dressed. (It was allegedly on fire, y’all.) Being sick means putting eyeshadow all over your face when you’re supposed to be doing time in your naughty chair, and it also means sticking your feet in empty coffee tins and tromping around the house in them. (With eyeshadow all over his face–what. a. sight.)
Sick means finding Mia’s bag of valentines in the car, grabbing the Fun-dip out of it, and strewing it from one side of the backseat to the other while mom is apparently concentrating way hard on driving. (What parent buys Fun-dip valentines? Really?)
And this is what brings me to now. Merrick is in a chair beside me and I’d tie him to it if I had the rope. He is listening to the wind whistling outside and he says “Mom, can you shut off the wind?” Me, chuckling: “No, son, I cannot shut off the wind.” Him: “Humph. Daddy could do it.”