As my wife so eloquently put it:
We have enough boogers in this house to fill a pool.
The Black Plague entered our home two weeks ago as a deceivingly slight discomfort in my wife’s throat the day before the Twins’ First Birthday Party EVER Extravaganza, and while this pivotal moment in American History was an overwhelming success, she was sadly not able to enjoy the festivities to her fullest capacity, as Mount Saint Mucus erupted mid-“Happy Birthday to You.”
Yes, that’s right. The Twins are now one year old. I intended to announce this with much more electronic fanfare and Michael-Bay-esque explosions, chronicling the event more extensively than the Royal Wedding for you, O Loyal Reader (as I am certain the mere mention of it now has you trembling in anticipation) but the Plague had other plans. My head is buried in the haze of infection, so a coherent reflection on the first year of fatherhood will have to wait.
. . .
I spent MLK weekend as a single parent while my poor, bedridden wife hacked up several hundred lungs interspersed between five-hour naps. The Twins and I did our best to avoid the quarantined area and left the house often in an effort to fend off the army of flesh-starved microbes bent on devouring us whole with the dumb, relentless determination of a limbless-but-still-crawling-after-you zombie.
Unfortunately, just as most zombie lore ends with the protagonist’s tragic, inevitable conversion to either hamburger or dead walker, the Twins and I could only fend off these biological warmongers for so long, and 5 days later (as opposed to 28), we, too, had adopted my wife’s vacant stare and mucus-generating capabilities.
The Twins have taken their newfound powers to creative lengths by sneeze-launching snot rockets into the atmosphere.
“I just got splashed. That wasn’t just a little sprinkle. That was like Sea World.”
A typical remedy for making a cold say “uncle” is achieving oneself plenty of rest. However, my wife and I have not had that capability. With two sick one-year-olds, we’ve been getting even less sleep than usual as they take turns waking up every hour or so during at night, drowning in their own snot. As I have explained previously in exhaustive detail, “crying it out” does not work in our house, so we
spring stumble into action, further zombifying ourselves. This sickness/sleep deprivation combo has inspired fascinating behavior on my part. I have recently caught myself performing the following actions:
- washing a paper plate in the sink;
- searching for a left-turn signal while navigating a shopping cart through Target; and
- wondering why I couldn’t see the rain out the window, because it actually wasn’t rain–it was the sound of my bubbling Keurig coffeemaker, which I had just turned on five seconds ago.
. . .
We’re rocking badass pink tissue-abrasion mustaches. Our voices are cracking like teenagers. We’ve constructed elaborate Kleenex-wad sculpture installations where there once were visible garbage cans.
Admit it. You’re jealous of us.
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If not, come on over to our place so we can sneeze on you.