What’s Better Than a Plain Old Monday?” A Monday with a Head Cold!

Winsor_McCay_-_Little_Sammy_Sneeze_(1905)_book_coverWhen I woke up I sneezed twice, so I immediately knew I was coming down with a cold.

If I had sneezed three times, it would have just been a regular sneeze, because I always sneeze in threes when I’m healthy. Four sneezes would be an allergy. Two is a cold.

Yes, this is what I spend my time thinking about. Sad, isn’t it.

Even if I hadn’t been this self-aware, I think I might have seen this one coming simply by virtue of the fact that my kids had been sick. Every parent knows that children + cold = sick parent. It’s one of those laws of nature. If my kids are sneezing and I am in the path of those germs when the sneezes are snezzed, I will get them. I guess then it is actually the laws of physics. But the end result is the same. I get a facefull of sneeze and then I get sick.

The best case scenario is that I don’t actually get sick until my kids are better, because god knows, there is nothing worse than taking care of a sick kid when you yourself are sick. Well, actually, there is something worse: Taking care of two sick kids. And if by some stroke of total cosmic misfortune your husband also gets sick and you have to take care of him too, that is really the worst case scenario and is grounds for an immediate spa day.

The good news was, everyone else in the house was healthy again. But back at snot central, my sneezes had worked their way up into my head and by 2pm, I had a full-blown cold.

“I think I’mb sick,” I said to my husband over the phone.

“You think, what?” he asked.

“I gob a code,” I tried again.

“You gob a code?” He repeated. “Honey, I don’t know what you are trying to tell me but I’m not in the mood for any guessing games. I’m not feeling well and I think I may be coming down with a cold.”

I sighed and hung up. I got the funny feeling there was definitely a spa day in my future.

I was still looking for some sympathy at 3pm when my daughter got home from school.

“You gob be sick,” I said to her accusingly.

“I what what sick?” my daughter asked in confusion.

“You GOB BE sick,” I said emphatically.

“What’s a gob?” she asked. I shook my head. It was so stuffed my eyeballs hurt.

“Gob. GOB!!” I said. She looked at me blankly. It was no use. I either needed a Cold translator or I’d have to wait five to seven days to make my point.  I was so frustrated. I wanted sympathy. I wanted understanding. I wanted someone else to blame for my misery.

I decided to try a different tact.

“I hab a Code.” I said

“A code for what?” asked my daughter.

“A Code. A CODE,” I said loudly. “Ib by Doze!”

“Mom, you are not making any sense,” said my daughter. “Are you sick?”

“Yes. YES!” I yelled, “I’mb sick! I’mb sick.”

“Oh,” she replied. “So what’s for dinner?”

 

©2014, Beckerman. All rights reserved.

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When Bad Things Happen to Good Grill Tools

GRILL TOOLS“Honey, have you seen my grill tools?” asked my husband, as he ran in from his grilling post on the back deck.

I pointed to the cabinet over the fridge.

“No, those are my back-up grill tools,” he clarified. “I’m looking for my good grill tools.”

I rolled my eyes. I knew what grill tools he was looking for. They were the uber-expensive ones in their own titanium case. They came with a matching monogrammed branding iron and a lifetime guarantee against rust, dullness, and Kryptonite. They were the ones that had been missing in action for about a year.

“You keep asking me and I keep telling you I don’t know where they are,” I responded.

He mumbled something under his breath.

“WHAT?” I demanded.

“I think you put them away somewhere and forgot where,” he said a little louder.

I glared and thrust a lesser grill spatula at him. “Since I am not the one who uses the grill tools, I don’t think I’m the one who put them away somewhere and forgot where.”

Although I was miffed, I had to admit, this was not a completely unjust accusation. In past cleaning frenzies, I have been known to move things from one location to another in an attempt to create more storage space than we actually have.

The problem is, sometimes I move stuff… and then move it again… and then, maybe one more time, until eventually I can’t remember the last place I moved it to.

With any luck, the thing I moved ends up back in the first location and no one is the wiser. But sometimes, the occasional object gets relocated and for the life of me, I have no idea where it is. Although I am quick to blame it on another family member, or a ghost, or the same black hole that snatches socks from my washing machine, the sad truth is, if something is missing, I am usually the culprit.

Still, I was pretty sure that the missing grill tool case was not my doing. I had tried to move it once before and when I couldn’t find a pantry shelf or closet that would accommodate it, I gave up and left it in the kitchen. Where it went after that, though, was beyond me.

“Maybe it was stolen?” I suggested to my husband

“You think someone broke into our house, ignored the TVs and computers, and just ran off with my grill tools?”

“They are in a titanium case,” I said. “And there is that monogrammed branding iron in there. Maybe a depraved cowboy broke into our house and took the case so he could steal cattle and use the branding iron with your initials to throw the police off his trail.”

“A depraved cowboy?” He wondered. “In the suburbs?”

“Yes.”

“You sticking with that story?”

“I am,” I said.

“OK. Let me know when you find my grill tools.”

Two days later, I opened a linen cabinet that I open multiple times every day, and there, right in plain sight, under a bunch of tablecloths, was the titanium grill tool case.

It had been a year, so my memory was fuzzy. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I did kind of remember that I had stashed the case on that shelf. I felt terrible and immediately regretted blaming my husband for my actions. I knew that the key to a great marriage is to admit when you have made a mistake, so I picked up the phone to call my husband.

“Great news!” I exclaimed. “The cowboy returned your grill case!”

©2014, Beckerman. All rights reserved.

bookbutton-04“Lost in Suburbia: A Momoir. How I Got Pregnant. Lost Myself, and Got My Cool Back in the New Jersey Suburbs”  makes a great beach read! To get a copy for you or a cool mom you love, CLICK HERE

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