The plague finally seems to be lifting from my household, and we are no longer officially quarantined, although I do feel a rather ominous post-nasal tickle. I am planning to ignore it. Perhaps coat it with the sour cream from my nachos tonight.
Frankie was truly pathetically sick. She had a 104 fever for three days and had about as much energy as I do in my ninth month of pregnancy. She would gamely try, even in her diminished state, to still stick her nose in whatever I was doing. "Can I cook with you, Mom?," she'd croak, and then climb up on the counter to watch me. She'd remain upright about thirty seconds before she'd announce that she'd like to continue to watch while lying down, narrowly avoiding a rhinoplasty with her head close to the cutting board. She also wanted to play games that required no motion on her part, like "Let's pretend I am Thomas and I'm stuck in a snowbank, and you are Gordon and you chug around the island all day looking for me." These instructions would be invariably issued from a supine position on the couch while I, sucker that I am, would do my best train imitation while gliding about the room and periodically making adjustments to my technique based on Frankie's barked orders.
Once the Motrin wore off, she was even more like a limp dishrag, and wanted nothing more than to watch "The Bee Movie" over and over again. She would only watch about twenty minutes of it, and then she'd shut it off, but she always wanted to watch it soon after and refused to let me start the movie where she had left off. Consequently, I could recite the first half of the movie line by line for you, but I still don't know what happens after Barry the Bee decides to sue the human race for taking bees' hard-earned honey. The sad part is that I am strangely interested.
Molly seems to have escaped the worst of this illness since she hasn't had a fever. She has had a copiously runny nose and a good case of the crabbies though. It took my poor father twenty minutes to change her diaper when he watched her yesterday because she got so spitting mad he had to do it in stages. Stage one, clean poop from crevices, allow angry crawling. Stage two, pin down and attach diaper, allow angry stair climbing. Stage three, snap onesie, avoid angry attempts at face slapping. Stage four, wrestle pants on, plug ears to avoid permanent damage from blood-curdling protests.
If I am going to get sick, it better be in the next two days while my husband is home. But it better not be before 2 p.m. tomorrow because I am finally getting my hair cut and if I have to suffer through the flu with these roots, it will not be a pretty sight.