We all know what Death looks like. Hooded, skinny figure (I think he's a runner). Black robe. Carries a sharp thing used by farmers to cut wheat or by movie psychos to cut teens.
But Sick? I dunno. Maybe he's sloppy, with man boobs, and he probably coughs a lot and doesn't smell very good, like he hasn't showered for four days. He's probably got a few bedsores and an unshaven face. And pink eye. And gout. And he wears a shirt with grape jelly on it.
He's already nailed the twins. It's been at least two weeks since they were last sick, so it's apparently time again. I'm home now with Jayden, who has not spilled his cookies just yet (something Andie and Allie already did) but has a fever and just isn't himself. I've worked most of the morning but there's only so much you can do from home. Now I'm watching "Up" with him, which isn't a bad thing at all.
I don't mind nursing the kids through their bugs. What I don't like is getting squashed by the bug myself. That's what I mean by the Sick hanging over our house. I'm believe I"m next.
And I hate it.
I don't like being sick. Who really does? But I can take it. I honestly hate missing my training a lot more. It always seems to take a couple weeks to get your mojo back, and I need that mojo. Mojo is good for marathon training.
Still. Being a parent pretty much means you're going to share just about everything little crap bug your kids pick up.
"I'd rather it just get it over with," Kate said last night, already resigned to catching the pest.
The waiting is, as always, the hardest part.