Being sick with kids is pretty much the worst (okay, I’m exaggerating. I can think of lots way worse things but it’s definitely the worst thing this week…that I’ve experienced). They seem more full of energy and more in need of attention. They say your name over and over and over again but you can hardly hear because your ears are so clogged so you ask, “What did you say?” and they say, “I said mommy mommy mommy.” You say, “Did you need something?” They say, “No.” You say, “You just wanted to say my name lots of times?” Them, “Yep.” O….K. You hack up a lung and go for more tissues. This is pretty easy to do since Laylee has emptied an entire box next to my bed – for easy access, I’m sure. I hate whiny blogs so I think I’m gonna take a break right here and say something that’s been on my mind.
One summer when I was a teenager, I had a job in the kitchen of a summer camp facility. I had one bitter kitchen boss lady who swore like a sailor and ruled with an iron fist and yet was entirely adorable. We’ll call her Hazel, for purposes of concealing her identity from the law. Hazel hated……well pretty much everyone. Mostly she hated camp administration and an overweight guy whose name I don’t know because she always just referred to him as the fat guy-with-questionable-parentage (I promised my husband not to tell the FB story again with the real word once we had kids. I will tell it with a substitute foul name some other day.).
So when the camp administration was getting her down one evening and she was sick of ”˜workin’ for the man,’ Hazel came up with an evil plot. I was never really sure why she was so angry because she wasn’t nearly as good at explaining her feelings as she was at calling people bad names, but she always assumed that me and her other employees agreed with her fully and shared all of her gripes.
That evening she cornered me beside the industrial refrigerator.
Hazel: I’m sick of the way these people are treating us. If things keep on like this, we’ll get ”˜em. You’ll see.
Hazel: No, I’ve got it all planned out. We’ll leave the gas running in the kitchen, light a match, throw it in and walk away. And I swear to you I will never, as long as I live, tell anyone that you were involved in this, ever!
Me: Um, thanks.
This didn’t really scare me at the time because I didn’t believe she had it in her to do it and it was mostly just sort of bizarrely funny. It also gave me a new expression. When I am just so DONE with someone or something in my life, I say, “I’m just gonna light a match and walk away.”
That’s how I feel about this cold — Just light a match. I’m done.