Why is it that every time my husband gets sick, the kids do, too - but I don't? Huh? Why am I cleaning up the super nasties while DH gets to lounge about? I mean, if you knew him, you'd have to laugh at this big guy (he's 6'3" and 210+ pounds) moaning pitifully on my couch. And I do mean pitiful!
"Oh, honey - I feel so bad, (cough, cough) I wish I could help you with the kids (sniffle), but I just can't get up right now, (snore)." Uh, huh. Meanwhile my baby boy is emitting noxious fumes, and my sweet daughter is gagging over my -
"Oh, no! Liv - in the bucket! The bucket! " Apparently she likes the bucket too much to make a mess in it, however that affection does not extend to the gorgeous green blanket that my best friend brought to me from Japan. Seems that DH thought it would be an appropriate cover for a vomitous three year old. I can see what his fevered brain was thinking - okay, not really, but I'm trying not to sound like a total snot.
Sorry about the complaining - but I have a super sensitive schnoz, and between the three of them my house smells like the morning after (you can supply your own bad memory here).
I'm going to scrub my couch, and when I'm done I just might lie down, too.
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