We've had three of them in as many weeks here at the casa di bee, and judging by the booger bubble Daniel was blowing this morning, my guess is numero quatro is just around the corner.
Daniel brings 'em home from childcare, which is a place I've not yet explained to y'all, not because it's a secret but because I don't know, and is a bit sniffy for a day or two (granted, numero trois, which he recovered from yesterday in time for los quattros today and that I'm still knee deep in, did render him quite the grizzly little whiney head this past weekend. He was all "Pick me up, put me down, pick me up, waah" and I was all "Dude, jeezuz, would you like fries with that or what?") but then the mucus train dumps a whole fuckload of its crap onto me and I'm wiped out for considerably longer.
I haven't been this sick so constantly since, well, never. There was that one year I worked in an abbatoir and was sick a lot. It was all stress related, mind, mostly because everyone hated me there so I worked forty hours a week surrounded by hate which, as I'm such a friendly fucker, was awful. It was in a hills' town with a hills' town mentality (think Deliverance
), and because my dad was one of the engineering big knobs at the factory, they figured he got me the job because I was his precious sweetcakes, which who the fuck cares anyway? In any case, nothing could have been further from the truth. I'd left home that year so dad wasn't talking to me which, I know, what the fuck? Anyway, living where I was and needing a job because I'd been kicked out of university for failing everything so spectacularly, when this one came up, I took it. Dad, learning that I was about to start working there, continued with the silent treatment and would even ignore me if he happened to see me at work, which given that it was prehistoric times relying on an internal mail system involving hard copies in envelopes being delivered by an internal mail round post officer person thingy, and given that that was one of my jobs, was at least twice a day, more if I was needed to fill in for the receptionist in the front office. For those of you who are wondering, no, I didn't slaughter any livestock. I have a smal but useless observation from my entire time working there and here it is: nothing turns a man into a wild eyed freak like a career on the kill floor does. Or maybe they're the only ones that apply for the job in the first place? I never thought about it til now, but it's quite the chicken and the egg scenario there, isn't it? And in wrapping this little digression up, my dad began talking to me again the minute I moved back home, ta da. So bla bla bla, and really, is it any wonder I was sick a lot during that period in my life?
Since then though, and that was over twenty years ago, I could count the number of times I've been ill on two hands. Three, tops. Even when I weighed 33 kilos, it wasn't this bad. I think being emaciated does something to your immune system though, revs it up or something, maybe because if you've that underweight, you can't afford to get sick, so your body won't let you. I might have just made that up, so don't go quoting me or anything. No kidding though, apart from the something horrific I caught last year
, I haven't had a cold in forever, and even the something horrific only hung around for two weeks, when every one else was wiped out for something ridiculous like six.
These past three weeks it's literally been one cold ofter the other for both of us, and I might be some kind of tough sumbitch, but when it comes to colds, I'm a big ol' bag of whinge. Also, what son? Could I talk any more about me or what? I could, so yeah, I feel like I'm dying here, mostly because oxygen and I have this thing going on where I need it on a regular basis and I'm used to getting it when I want, and if I'm not dying, I think the whole world should respect that I feel like I am and feel sorry for me, fercrisake.
I'm also trying to run a business here which (oh! There it is, a partial explanation for the childcare thing) isn't running so well when I have to reschedule my one, possibly two (woot!) clients, and it isn't good for making the money I need to make to pay for childcare in the first place.
Speaking of daycare, they love him there. LOVE him. I caught them talking about him last week, and heard them carry on about how he's so cute and how much they all want to take him home because he's such a happy baby, and yes, I know they say that stuff to every parent's face, even if junior is some kind of monster, but listen up people, I caught
them talking amongst themselves about my delicious little boy. When I walked through they looked up guiltily and were all "uh, yeah, sorry, we were talking about your son". So as much as I don't want to be one of those annoying fucks who think their child is the best kid ever, mine kind of is so I kind of am. Sorry 'bout that. Seriously though, does every mother have strangers constantly coming up to comment on what an adorable child you have? I assumed everyone did until I was between colds, so went out with a friend and her baby. We stopped in a cafe and sat with our kids in our laps. Daniel smiled at everyone and was generally being his regular self, but everyone stopped to talk to us and kind of ignored them. It was embarrassing actually, almost as embarrassing as when we went to a friend's boy's first birthday party and the guests were grabbing their cameras and going gooey over my little ham instead.