If I had sneezed three times, it would have just been a regular sneeze, because I always sneeze in threes when I’m healthy. Four sneezes would be an allergy. Two is a cold.
Yes, this is what I spend my time thinking about. Sad, isn’t it.
Even if I hadn’t been this self-aware, I think I might have seen this one coming simply by virtue of the fact that both my kids were sick. Every parent knows that children + cold = sick parent. It’s one of those laws of nature. If my kids are sneezing and I am in the path of those germs when the sneezes are snezzed, I will get them. I guess then it is actually the laws of physics. But the end result is the same. I get a facefull of sneeze and then I get sick.
The best case scenario is that I don’t actually get sick until my kids are better, because god knows, there is nothing worse than taking care of a sick kid when you yourself are sick. Well, actually, there is something worse: Taking care of two sick kids. And if by some stroke of total cosmic misfortune your husband also gets sick and you have to take care of him too, that is really the worst case scenario and is grounds for an immediate spa day.
The good news was, after three days, the kids were well enough that I could send them back to school. But back at snot central, my sneezes had worked their way up into my head and by 2pm, I had a full-blown cold.
“I think I’mb sick,” I said to my husband over the phone.
“You think, what?” he asked.
“I gob a code,” I tried again.
“You gob a code?” He repeated. “Honey, I don’t know what you are trying to tell me but I’m not in the mood for any guessing games. I’m not feeling well and I think I may be coming down with a cold.”
I sighed and hung up. I got the funny feeling there was definitely a spa day in my future.
I was still looking for some sympathy at 3pm when school let out.
“You gob be sick,” I told my kids when I picked them up from school.
“We what what sick?” my daughter asked in confusion.
“You GOB BE sick,” I said emphatically.
“What’s a gob?” asked my son. I shook my head. It was so stuffed my eyeballs hurt.
“Gob. GOB!!” I said. They looked at me blankly. It was no use. I either needed a Cold translator or I’d have to wait five to seven days to make my point that they got me sick. I was so frustrated. I wanted sympathy. I wanted understanding. I wanted someone else to blame for my misery.
I decided to try a different tact.
“I hab a Code.” I said
“A code for what?” asked my son.
“A Code. A CODE,” I said loudly. “Ib by Doze!”
“Mom, you are not making any sense,” said my daughter. “Are you sick?”
“Yes. YES!” I yelled, “I’mb sick! I’mb sick.”
“Oh,” she replied. “So what’s for dinner?”