If a mom coughs uncontrolably in a steamy hot shower on a Sunday afternoon, and no one was there to hear it, did it really happen?

Trick question.

Mom’s don’t get to take steamy hot showers alone, and the pee running down her leg is a dead giveaway.

I’ve decided the whole, being a mom is a thankless job, thing started after some poor lady got sick after taking care of eleventy hundred kids because her husband dry heaves if he has to wipe an endless chain of green mucus streaming out of a kid’s face, and nobody got her any ginger ale or hot soup.

My kids have been sick for, oh I don’t know, infinity weeks.

We did doctors and antibiotics and decongestants, and it was during a particularly athletic struggle of forcing Mucinex down the throat of my 4 year old when he literally sneezed it back into my open mouth, that I knew, it was only a matter of time.

This weekend, as their snot dried up and turned back to clear, their coughing jags grew shorter and less productive, and Andy crawled into bed next to me and nudged me in the back, I rolled over, eyes crusted over, kleenex shoved the strap of my old nursing bra, and said…I think I’m sick.

To which he replied, ugh, you too?

And then I punched him in the face.

Andy rarely gets sick. Something he credits to his stellar immune system, but the truth of the matter is, he doesn’t get sick because he isn’t around sick. Ever.

One sneeze and he retreats into his John Travolta bubble, shooting OJ and snorting crushed up Airborne, while I am left behind with a can of Lysol and a jar of broth.

If this was Outbreak, I am Renee Russo and Andy is whatever dickface character Donald Sutherland played.

I have spent the majority of the weekend trying to nap, unsuccessfully. I had a good rest going for about 30 minutes yesterday afternoon, when Andy and the kids busted in all, the kids miss mama and really want to snuggle and sleep with you.  Which was a lie, because they didn’t want to do that at all, they jumped on the bed and fought, and when I sat up to tell Andy to please just take them away, he was gone.

He played on my motherly guilt, and scammed me so he could go out on the garage and work on his stupid helicopters.

He attempted a mea culpa with some homemade chicken noodle soup for dinner, and I did feel a bit better, so we decided to sit down with the boys and work on their Christmas lists.

Jude and Wyatt poured over newspaper toy inserts, and instructed us what to write, and when they felt they had everything accounted for, they signed their names and asked us to decorate their letters with Santas and reindeer.

I worked on Jude’s letter, promising to draw a real Santa and not a stupid horse-person Santa.

Brittany-Santa-Letter

He was quite pleased.

Andy handled Wyatt’s letter, and, well…

Any-Santa-Letter

By the time he was finished, Wyatt was not happy.  In fact, I think his exact words were like, that’s not Santa, daddy.  That looks like a gnome that someone ran over and is dying all over my paper.

He was crushed, so I drew a fun reindeer to get Wyatt to stop crying, and after a 20 minute coughing attack in the middle of the kitchen, after which I had to change my underwear, I promised Andy he could snuggle next to me in bed and touch my boobs while I took a quick nap.

To which he responded all, but then my hands will smell like Vix.

And then I punched him again. Way harder.  In the testes.

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