The Lysol Chronicles

I knew it was coming.

You know how you know these things are coming? I knew this one was coming.

It's the flu. It's here and it's pissed.

I sent Monkey and Mini off to school on Thursday with Monkey Bread for Teacher Appreciation Week (Mini's were smaller than Monkey's...I can't get over how clever I am sometimes...). At pick-up, there was a letter waiting for me from Monkey's teacher:

"Dear Parents,

There has been a confirmed case of flu in your classroom. Please watch your child for flu-like symptoms. We will continue to disinfect the surfaces and toys in the classroom. Thank you for your assistance in keeping our school healthy and happy.

Sincerely..."

FARK!!!

Apparently, three students and a teacher were absent from Monkey's classroom yesterday. Four were sent home over the course of the day and Monkey wasn't looking so hot--along with a few of his friends. By dinner, he was running a 102 fever.

I honestly don't mind my kids getting sick. Don't get me wrong, I hate it for them because they look so tiny and miserable, but they pick the WORST TIMES EVER!!!!

Monkey's crappy timing, in this case, had to do with his brother.

Mini was having his fourth surgical procedure this morning....a minor one (PE Tubes), but surgery nonetheless. Yesterday, I followed Monkey all over the house with anti-bacterial gel (which I never use on general principle...I'm convinced the stuff will kill us all.) and would not let him NEAR Mini (it takes me long enough to wrap my head around Mini's surgeries that, once I'm ready, I want them done IMMEDIATELY). If Mini got sick and we had to postpone, I was going to be one pissed-off Mom. I don't know who I would have been pissed AT, but I would be pissed.

This morning, thankfully, Mini had his tubes put in and, though he's coughing, he's showing no signs of fever. Man stayed home with Monkey (whose fever is currently topping 103...we're headed to the doc at 3:20) and while I accompanied Mini down to the surgery center.

You would think carrying my son into the OR would get easier the more I do it. It doesn't. It breaks my heart every time.

Five minutes post-surgery, Mini was awake and flirting with another little 2-year old in the recovery room across from us, barfing apple juice all over me (that's how you turn on the ladies, dude. Way to go.) and asking for a Happy Meal, a request with which I happily complied. He's now home, running around the house and "playing" MarioKart.

Oh, yeah. And he's drinking Monkey's diseased Sprite. Great.

Oh well. Surgery #4 is over. Mini, do Mommy a favor: hurry up and get sick so you can hurry up and get over it. And I can start attacking anything that doesn't move with Lysol.