SB (small boy) isn’t feeling well today. Not sick enough to be in his bed sleeping, but just sick and crabby enough to make me wish I were oh, say, swimming in shark infested waters in a meat suit instead of being home with him.
So in an effort to soothe the SB (small beast), I took him to the toy store to pick out something to help get us through the day since it was too early for cocktails. After he had a mini-meltdown when I vetoed the $70 garbage truck, he found this pretty cool little light up car with stickers. Easy, right? Wrong.
I needed to pick up a few things at the market, so after I wrestled him into the cart (always fun, even more lively when he’s in cranky terrorist mode), and off we went. But – and here’s where the fun really began, apparently putting the stickers on the little car was much more important than buying groceries, so I had to stop every five feet to put a stupid *@#&@ sticker on. And then tragedy struck – one of the stickers FOLDED IN HALF AND WE COULDN’T UNFOLD IT OHMYGOD!!! Screaming ensued. By SB, although I really wanted to join in.
And so we left. Without groceries.
Now we’re back home and my master plan is slowly unfolding. I’ve laced his juice with Benadryl to help with the runny nose and – let’s face it – get him to go to sleep, and rented a very annoying movie about talking chipmunks. Snuggly pillow bed, and off to dreamy SB land. My hope is that when he wakes up he won’t be acting like that kid in the Omen anymore, because I’d really hate to have to change his name to Damien.
The absolute worst part of sick days is that time drags by slower than when I’m on the treadmill at the gym. I feel like a hostage in one of those old movies where they etch a mark for each day of captivity on the wall and stare longingly out the window, dreaming of freedom. Right now it’s only noon and my husband (or BB – big boy) won’t get home until 6:30, which might as well be a million years away.
I may just invent the Benadryl Martini today.