On Friday I got my first "you need to come pick up your sick kid" call from Django's school. My heart sank. Especially since I had taken due note of his watery eyes and whiny disposition Thursday evening. I waved a hand at the thought, willed it away, hoped that would work.Needless to say, our house has been a crooked one all weekend, a quarantined one, a place where snot has been running in rivers and tears have been falling like rain. Django's little furnace is stuck on 102, and no amount of ibuprofen seems to be able to budge it. I can almost see the germy buggers inside him smirking, taunting, staring at me from behind his one especially pink eye. They are making me cranky. Very cranky. And when I make my fifth call of the weekend to the Kaiser advice center at some inevitable point tomorrow, they better not ask me again if my address or phone number has changed since the last time I called. If they do, I refuse to be responsible for what I say in reply.
This, too, shall pass. I know. Good, bad or indifferent, it always does. Until then, I'll have to keep my mind going back to Django's quip at the kitchen table this morning, when I said I was going to take his temperature again -- with our new $55 ear thermometer: "Ok, Mom. But then pop the cover off real high, because that's the funnest part!"
