We've got the plague.
It all started at the tail end of our super fun summer vacation to New York. There was a family wedding last Saturday night and so, of course, my sister Anne and I decided that, since we were baby-free and David has agreed to designated drive, it was our moral obligation to tie one on old school-style!
(insert woo-hoo type sound here)
The wedding was the greatest kind of wedding there is, and by that I mean a wedding at which the bar is open for cocktails before the ceremony even begins. Anne and I got our game faces on and headed for the bar!
CUT TO:
Six hours and countless Budweisers later David finally managed to drag Anne and I from the dance floor, where we had been performing an unsightly and age-inappropriate version of FLO-RIDAs "Low" to the bemusement/horror of our assembled relatives and we reluctantly agree to head for home.
As we poured ourselves into the car, I called to check in with my folks, who had left a bit early to relieve the sitter.
The bad news was that the report from home was was not good. The good news was that I did manage to discover the ultimate sober-up quick catchphrase the moment my mom said to me:
"There's something wrong with Snood."
We raced home to find our poor little guy moaning and feverish and ended up heading to the E.R. after Snood's fever passed 104 degrees. We delayed our flight back and several nights of missed sleep later, finally managed to limp back to L.A with a sniffling Snood (who, it turned out, just had a nasty virus).
And that is where we find ourselves now.
EXCEPT! I forgot to add that during the above events David and I both caught the Snoodie-plague and are now both horribly sick - - just in time for Snoods to start feeling better!
I sat Snoodie down and explained to him quite calmly,
"Snoodie, Daddy and Mommy feel like crap. And since we took such nice care of you when you weren't feeling well, how about you do me a solid and just mellow out for a few days until we are feeling better, OK? Maybe just play quietly while Daddy and I catch up on some much needed sleep?"
He didn't go for it.
So now our existence is reduced to wandering the house zombie-like, with strange fluids leaking from our heads as we half-heartedly attempt to stop Snood from licking the fireplace grate, while simultaneously breaking down on a cellular level.
We are hot sheeting the bed, with one of us chasing Snoods around until we can't stay vertical for another moment and then diving into bed and yelling to the other, "It's your turn! I think I saw him heading for the kitchen!" before passing out again.
Because...we have the plague.
