Gotta Love Him

My husband is good at a lot of things. He's great at a lot more things. But there's a short list of tasks that he just doesn't do. Hey, we all have our limits. Paying bills, delivering clean laundry to it's proper drawer, cooking, and ironing all fall on this short list. (Admittedly, half of these items are ALSO on my short list list of Nah Ah, Not Never) The addendum to my husband's list involves the refusal to use saran wrap and plastic bags. And, I am not referring to the bedroom. My husband does not use the above mentioned items in the kitchen. Ever.

If, by some miracle, he is found in the kitchen after dinner, doing dishes there are sure to be two items neglected: Large pots or pans. If it's on the stove, consider it nonexistent. It's like his vision doesn't allow for sight in the general cooking region. BLIP. He must pan the kitchen and see a giant black hole where the range is. BLIP. It's not getting washed, soaked, or scrubbed. It's not even visually recognized.

And finally, this brings me back to the saran wrap. I just want to show you an example of how clean up might be handled by my darling hubby after a meal:

Nevermind the empty dishwasher waiting just below the counter.

Saran wrap? Who needs it?


The Flu Fairy

The Flu Fairy arrived last Thursday night in a splatter on Ana's crib sheets. Spending the night at Grandma's just got a bit more challenging. John and I scrambled to substitute bath towels for sheets and searched through her luggage for a spare set of Pj's. No big deal, I thought, she probably just ate too many beans at dinner. It was beans I saw in there, I think, along with grape skins and strawberry greens (she eats the tops of strawberries?). When she woke up crying because the flu fairy had visited again, we whisked her away to the bathroom for a second wipe down. Giving up on the playpen, the three of us wedged ourselves into the queen bed in Grandma's guest room. No sooner did we turn out the light than that damned flu fairy came in the form of wet, hot, chunkiness all over my chest. Thanks. I won't bore you with the janitorial details any further.
The rest of the story goes something like the domino effect. Although, I'm embarrassed to admit I was still in complete denial that my infant could have contracted the flu in early September. People are still wearing white pants for god sakes! There isn't a clinic out there administering flu shots! Who gets the flu this time of year? She's fine, just an upset stomach. And she's a toddler, they don't eat much-or, in her case, anything all day. Friday came and went and Saturday morning hit me like a Mac Truck. It began with crying at 5 a.m. Oh no, the Flu Fairy. I braced myself for a repeat of Thursday but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to face. This time, the Flu Fairy came out the back end and sprayed all over the crib, our crib, the bumper, the wall, hell, you name it, she hit it. Holy mother of god, the Flu Fairy has a machine loaded weapon!
I cleaned up the bulk of the mess, then cleaned the baby and was still wondering where it all came from when she decorated my sofa. Jeezus! It's not even 8 in the morning! And when I say decorated, picture that scene from Poltergeist when the white vomit spews out in buckets. Pretty much that. On my sofa.
That's when I realized I wasn't feeling well. Well, who would after a morning like that? But I really wasn't feeling well. I called in the troupes (daddy was at work, already) and my sister whisked Shelby away for the day. Flitting in occasionally to change a diaper (or more sheets), bring me Gatorade or start another load of laundry. I was in prime shape all weekend. Shelby had the good fortune of meeting the Flu Fairy on Saturday night. Blaugh! My sister met her on Sunday and then she caught up with John on Monday. Did I mention that after we left Grandma's on Friday, Grandma had a visit from the Flu Fairy on Saturday, too? She gets around! Lemme tell ya.
A few choice comments made in regards to the Flu Fairy:
I don't get it. I drink water. I drink Gatorade. And it comes out my butt!
It's like that South Park episode where they poop out of their mouths. I feel like I've been pooping out of my mouth all day. WHAT IS THIS?
It's the color of Dijon mustard.
At least I don't have to cook. No one's eating.