Fatherhood: It's Just Grand
|Okay, that's the fatigue talking. It's still pretty cool, but the last 24 hours have been a little rough. Of course, as usual, my misery is your levity, so I'll explain.|
Last night, the missus made chicken fajitas. The chicken was in the freezer for some time, and after it was cooked, it still looked a little, um, "off," but we ate it anyway. Remember that.
After dinner, I went food shopping. The missus still can't drive, so I have to do all of the "woman's work." Let me tell you: woman's work sucks! I arrived at the Shop Rite in the pouring rain (Strike One), grabbed a cart with no less than three bad wheels (Strike Two), and fought crowds of non-English speaking shoppers (Strike Three!). Nevertheless, I purchased everything on our list, and a few lo-cal choices for my Weight Loss Challenge. On top of that, I received a text message from Captain America, complaining that the scantily-clad supermodel pictures I sent him were intercepted by his Oberfrau. Apparently, he doesn't wear the pants in his own castle. Wuss.
At checkout, I had to bag everything for myself. Naturally. The paper bags were nowhere to be found, so I packed everything into the plastic ones. Being a shopping novice, I was throwing glass jars in with glass jars, packing two gallons of milk into one thin plastic bag, and trying to keep up with the pimply-faced, prepubescent teenage girl who was obviously competing for the world speed checkout record. This stupid broad was almost throwing my packages at me!
I loaded the shopping cart and went out to the car - at least the rain stopped. When I was loading everything into the rear of my vehicle, God decided to smite me again - three bags ripped from the weight. I looked up at the sky, smiled, and said to myself, "Nice one, God."
When I got home, I had to repack the three bags and carry them inside. The missus was there to help out, and we put the groceries away quickly. The kids went to bed, and I finally had some time to myself. After watching the season finale of Prison Break - it was good, not great - I jumped onto the computer.
I wasn't online for five minutes when the missus came downstairs and said, "Can you help me? Erik just threw up all over his bed."
Swell. Thanks again, God.
When I went upstairs, I noticed that my lovely bride didn't tell me the whole truth. Erik vomited all right, but not only on his bed. He threw up on his clothes, his blanket, his pillow, his stuffed animals, his face, and the floor. And it wasn't just vomit; it was that heavy, industrial-waste puke, complete with chunks. Leanne put Erik into the tub, while I threw the soiled garments into the washing machine - and tried not to vomit myself. I can take a guy's head being shot off, but other people's puke makes me sick every time.
After the haz-mat was cleaned and secured, the wife turned to me and said, "Well, Erik did say his stomach hurt at dinner . . . " Obviously. We went to bed, praying to avoid another problem.
When we woke up today, my left eye was killing me. I rubbed it a little, and noticed that it was all goopy. After checking myself out in the mirror, I realized that the eye was really red. I think I caught pink eye. Thanks, God! On top of that, Erik threw up again this morning, and now Leanne has a fever.
We all ate the chicken.
Labels: The Boys