Okay, let's think logically about this. Unpredictable situation. Semi-darkness. Unfamiliar surroundings. Taking candy from strangers. Breaking the usual daily routine. Dressing up as Evil. Oh, and did I mention elevated blood sugar and the autistic spectrum? Oooh. There never was a witch's brew this toxic, my pretty...
At the university where my husband teaches, the faculty/staff collect candy in the weeks leading up to Halloween, and some of the students hand it out from their dorm rooms on the 31st. Since we live in Satan's foyer, this particular dormitory's doors all open to the outdoors like a Motel 8, so it's a nice, controlled, well-lit event, and heck, we brought in a couple of those bags ourselves a week ago, so why not?
Ready for it? Here it is. A nice young man opens the door and my daughter clutches hear ears, cringes, and shouts, "Willa's Wildlife is not on! A, B, C, D, E, F, G!" The nice co-ed looks startled, takes a quick glance around, and gives her candy while I try unsuccessfully to shush her. "C'mon honey. Sh-sh-shush. What do we say?" She shouts, "You're welcome!" Oy.
Thank the Creator that they'll be too old next year. I'm not sure my dignity can stand one more year of this...
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
And on a lighter note
I took The Girl to The Big City today by myself and left The Boy home. We had a lovely time.
Know what's kind of cute? Tonight I retreated to the chaise lounge in the back yard after dinner, and The Girl came out after me. I offered to hold her toys while she used the swing, but that wasn't what she was after. She wanted to sit in the other lounge chair and hang out with me. Yeah, I was amazed, too! Our small talk was somewhat, shall we say, repetitive as usual, but it was really nice. Girl time with my child. Hey, it's the little things...
Know what's kind of cute? Tonight I retreated to the chaise lounge in the back yard after dinner, and The Girl came out after me. I offered to hold her toys while she used the swing, but that wasn't what she was after. She wanted to sit in the other lounge chair and hang out with me. Yeah, I was amazed, too! Our small talk was somewhat, shall we say, repetitive as usual, but it was really nice. Girl time with my child. Hey, it's the little things...
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Gardening in The South: rake, heap, throw
Just thought I'd give you a picture of gardening in The South. Y'know, just in case you're not sleepy yet...
First off, there's the subtle distinction between landscaping and gardening. Landscaping requires boots, and gardening can be done in sneakers. If you're doing it in heels, we call it "picking flowers". In The South, of course, those rules bend a little, since we rarely wear shoes if we can help it. I mean, sheesh, there are no rocks, so that danger is minimal. Of course, the fire ants will swarm up your leg and wait for the chemical signal to sting all at once. And they WILL, too. But I digress.
What I'm doing is gardening, only I'm doing it in fuscia crocs. Now, technically, what I'm doing isn't gardening. No one really gardens this far south, they just kill the plants they don't want. Normally, this is called "weeding"; I prefer the term "herbal warfare". But again, I digress.
If you plant something that isn't native to this area, it dies, usually a terrible death of fungus, mold, drought, root rot, or from being eaten by insects -- sometimes all at once. This year, my tomatoes died from: septoria spot, tomato horn worms, drought, and some kind of moth that lays its eggs in the green tomatoes so that when the eggs hatch, the larvae eat the tomato from the inside out. But I digress.
This weekend, I exfoliated my yard. The Pest Control Guy told me to get ALL the plants off the outside walls of my house. We were getting too many earwigs in the house, so I figured he was probably right. I worked my way around the house, trimming anything in my path. Lean, cut, throw, lean, cut, throw, rake, heap, throw. Then I took out last year's vegetable garden. Rake, pull, lift and fold the irrigation system, rake, smooth, rake, heap, throw. Then I took down the jasmine that's climbing the may haw. Cut, pull, untangle, pull, clip, apply tourniquet, trim, rake, heap, throw. You get the picture.
Then I had to fix the sprinkler system. Oh sure, other people pay professionals, but that requires too much effort for me. I finally figured out how to get a narrow strip of land (like a path or right-of-way) watered. You get a sprinkler head (any shape) and change out its nozzle with the magical one of the right shape! Yeah, you'd think I'd catch on to that one earlier. You'd also think that they'd just make all the configurations we needed without making us buy two sprinklers. But there you have it. Buy parts, dig up the old ones, change them out, test, repeat.
Then there was the picket fence. *sigh* Get out the bleach, TSP, pump sprayer, and pressure washer. Trim the hedges around the fence, pull the weeds under it, set up the sprayer and washer. (Did I mention it's only 17' on both sides of the house, some of which is still covered with jasmine?) Clip, pull, rake, heap, throw, spritz, spray, dismantle the broken fence, make mental note to yell at lawn guys. "Unlatch gate, THEN push."
So, now I'm in the recliner, about to join Team Advil, feeling happy that I get to spend most of tomorrow in the car, sitting down, for my weekly trip to The Big City. If anyone drops anything tomorrow, I can no longer reach the floor, so they're going to have to pick it up themselves. Like that's going to happen. Rake, heap, throw.
First off, there's the subtle distinction between landscaping and gardening. Landscaping requires boots, and gardening can be done in sneakers. If you're doing it in heels, we call it "picking flowers". In The South, of course, those rules bend a little, since we rarely wear shoes if we can help it. I mean, sheesh, there are no rocks, so that danger is minimal. Of course, the fire ants will swarm up your leg and wait for the chemical signal to sting all at once. And they WILL, too. But I digress.
What I'm doing is gardening, only I'm doing it in fuscia crocs. Now, technically, what I'm doing isn't gardening. No one really gardens this far south, they just kill the plants they don't want. Normally, this is called "weeding"; I prefer the term "herbal warfare". But again, I digress.
If you plant something that isn't native to this area, it dies, usually a terrible death of fungus, mold, drought, root rot, or from being eaten by insects -- sometimes all at once. This year, my tomatoes died from: septoria spot, tomato horn worms, drought, and some kind of moth that lays its eggs in the green tomatoes so that when the eggs hatch, the larvae eat the tomato from the inside out. But I digress.
This weekend, I exfoliated my yard. The Pest Control Guy told me to get ALL the plants off the outside walls of my house. We were getting too many earwigs in the house, so I figured he was probably right. I worked my way around the house, trimming anything in my path. Lean, cut, throw, lean, cut, throw, rake, heap, throw. Then I took out last year's vegetable garden. Rake, pull, lift and fold the irrigation system, rake, smooth, rake, heap, throw. Then I took down the jasmine that's climbing the may haw. Cut, pull, untangle, pull, clip, apply tourniquet, trim, rake, heap, throw. You get the picture.
Then I had to fix the sprinkler system. Oh sure, other people pay professionals, but that requires too much effort for me. I finally figured out how to get a narrow strip of land (like a path or right-of-way) watered. You get a sprinkler head (any shape) and change out its nozzle with the magical one of the right shape! Yeah, you'd think I'd catch on to that one earlier. You'd also think that they'd just make all the configurations we needed without making us buy two sprinklers. But there you have it. Buy parts, dig up the old ones, change them out, test, repeat.
Then there was the picket fence. *sigh* Get out the bleach, TSP, pump sprayer, and pressure washer. Trim the hedges around the fence, pull the weeds under it, set up the sprayer and washer. (Did I mention it's only 17' on both sides of the house, some of which is still covered with jasmine?) Clip, pull, rake, heap, throw, spritz, spray, dismantle the broken fence, make mental note to yell at lawn guys. "Unlatch gate, THEN push."
So, now I'm in the recliner, about to join Team Advil, feeling happy that I get to spend most of tomorrow in the car, sitting down, for my weekly trip to The Big City. If anyone drops anything tomorrow, I can no longer reach the floor, so they're going to have to pick it up themselves. Like that's going to happen. Rake, heap, throw.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
There is no crying in math!!
My poor son... I think he's the first child in several generations who isn't naturally mathy. Oh sure, in my family, we get gym-phobia sometimes, but MATH PHOBIA? Nah... As long as you can make a picture in your head, it's easy-peasy. Right?
45 feet is how many yards? Umm. Well, here's a yard stick. There are three feet in each yard, and we want to measure in yards. Divide up all those 45 little feet into groups of three and see how many groups you get. I draw pictures. I get out the rulers and yardsticks. I make manipulatives. I draw more pictures. Nothing. I draw a picture of my sister's house and mark it as 45 feet wide, then I draw three-foot-long dogs in front of it. How many dogs long is it? Ummm. I count 15. Fifteen dogs (or yards) is the same as 45 feet.
He just can't flip the numbers around. Yards are bigger than feet, so you need fewer of them to make up the distance. A yard is made up of three feet, so DIVIDE up the 45 feet into groups of THREE feet each. Take the number of feet and DIVIDE BY THREE to get the number of yards.
I'm told he's "gifted", but he doesn't seem to have the knack for flipping numbers around. Divide three pizzas among four people? Well, split up each of the pizzas into four pieces, right? Then everyone gets one piece of each pizza. That's three pieces each? Hey, if you put all three of your pieces on one pizza pan, you have three pieces, and those pieces are fourths -- you get three-fourths of a pizza! Everyone gets three of the fourths of pizza -- 3/4!! Three pizzas divided among four people is 3/4 of a pizza for each person. A fraction is actually division!!
I must be the worst teacher EVER. Or he's just not mathy. "Those who can't, teach. Those who can, make crappy teachers." It was always true for gym teachers, anyway...
45 feet is how many yards? Umm. Well, here's a yard stick. There are three feet in each yard, and we want to measure in yards. Divide up all those 45 little feet into groups of three and see how many groups you get. I draw pictures. I get out the rulers and yardsticks. I make manipulatives. I draw more pictures. Nothing. I draw a picture of my sister's house and mark it as 45 feet wide, then I draw three-foot-long dogs in front of it. How many dogs long is it? Ummm. I count 15. Fifteen dogs (or yards) is the same as 45 feet.
He just can't flip the numbers around. Yards are bigger than feet, so you need fewer of them to make up the distance. A yard is made up of three feet, so DIVIDE up the 45 feet into groups of THREE feet each. Take the number of feet and DIVIDE BY THREE to get the number of yards.
I'm told he's "gifted", but he doesn't seem to have the knack for flipping numbers around. Divide three pizzas among four people? Well, split up each of the pizzas into four pieces, right? Then everyone gets one piece of each pizza. That's three pieces each? Hey, if you put all three of your pieces on one pizza pan, you have three pieces, and those pieces are fourths -- you get three-fourths of a pizza! Everyone gets three of the fourths of pizza -- 3/4!! Three pizzas divided among four people is 3/4 of a pizza for each person. A fraction is actually division!!
I must be the worst teacher EVER. Or he's just not mathy. "Those who can't, teach. Those who can, make crappy teachers." It was always true for gym teachers, anyway...
Monday, October 18, 2010
Granddad and the GPS
Oy Vey. Notice how most of my posts start with "oy vey"? Yeah. It's my life. Where to start... Where to start..?
Most Mondays, my dad keeps The Boy for the few hours while I drive The Girl to therapy in The Big City. Today, I took them with me. Yeaaaaaah... The Boy, The Old Man, and Karen, my dad's GPS wife. (If you follow Spongebob, think of Karen, Plankton's "computer wife". Yeahhh.)
I listened to him yap for an hour and a half each way and lent him my car for two hours in between. During those two hours, he was going to take The Boy out to McDonald's and Borders while The Girl had therapy. Instead, he took The Boy to Wendy's (strike 1), followed the GPS to the Borders in the airport (strike 2), and taught The Boy a few new swear words in traffic (strike 3). When I got out, I drove them to the non-airport Borders, let The Boy puke in a trash can in the children's section of Borders, and got us all home without further swearing or hard braking.
What am I going to do? The Boy does NOT want to spend three hours in the car and two hours in the therapy center lounge. The Boy doesn't mind spending four hours with my dad here. But sometimes, my poor dad gets bored and restless, and he just wants a field trip to somewhere other than the Food Lion. But I do not want him driving my car in The Big City. And worse, I think he's not being very kind to The Boy.
Everyone with an aspie boy knows at least six people who KNOW that if they had just two weeks alone with the boy they could "straighten him out". I suspect my dad is one of those people. He talks about boot camp and military school a lot, and always chuckles. But still.
Ooh! Funny part of the day -- The Boy says that he has a brilliant idea for a new GPS voice: Grandfather voice. "Dammit! Just turn left!! Aaaah!" I also suspect this GPS would say, "You have arrived at your destination. DON'T PARK ON MY LAWN!"
Most Mondays, my dad keeps The Boy for the few hours while I drive The Girl to therapy in The Big City. Today, I took them with me. Yeaaaaaah... The Boy, The Old Man, and Karen, my dad's GPS wife. (If you follow Spongebob, think of Karen, Plankton's "computer wife". Yeahhh.)
I listened to him yap for an hour and a half each way and lent him my car for two hours in between. During those two hours, he was going to take The Boy out to McDonald's and Borders while The Girl had therapy. Instead, he took The Boy to Wendy's (strike 1), followed the GPS to the Borders in the airport (strike 2), and taught The Boy a few new swear words in traffic (strike 3). When I got out, I drove them to the non-airport Borders, let The Boy puke in a trash can in the children's section of Borders, and got us all home without further swearing or hard braking.
What am I going to do? The Boy does NOT want to spend three hours in the car and two hours in the therapy center lounge. The Boy doesn't mind spending four hours with my dad here. But sometimes, my poor dad gets bored and restless, and he just wants a field trip to somewhere other than the Food Lion. But I do not want him driving my car in The Big City. And worse, I think he's not being very kind to The Boy.
Everyone with an aspie boy knows at least six people who KNOW that if they had just two weeks alone with the boy they could "straighten him out". I suspect my dad is one of those people. He talks about boot camp and military school a lot, and always chuckles. But still.
Ooh! Funny part of the day -- The Boy says that he has a brilliant idea for a new GPS voice: Grandfather voice. "Dammit! Just turn left!! Aaaah!" I also suspect this GPS would say, "You have arrived at your destination. DON'T PARK ON MY LAWN!"
Thursday, October 14, 2010
So, failure isn't really an option, is it?
Doing a little better today. No one started shouting strange things at me until late afternoon. The Boy pretty much did his work on his own. (I had him write his to-do list on the white board himself, and I think that helped.)
I've never been much of a "support group" person, so I take my sensible-yet-crazy online friends where I can get them, especially if they have non-neurotypical kids, too. And if they're looking down the barrel of perimenopause and burnout, that's icing on the cake. We're all working on it the best way we know how. Really we are. Sometimes it's enough. Sometimes, it's not. But somehow, I have to believe that as long as I'm not entirely alone, it'll all work out --someday, somehow. I mean, what is the alternative?
Failure is not an option, is it? Thanks, people, for just being out there and being crazy.
I've never been much of a "support group" person, so I take my sensible-yet-crazy online friends where I can get them, especially if they have non-neurotypical kids, too. And if they're looking down the barrel of perimenopause and burnout, that's icing on the cake. We're all working on it the best way we know how. Really we are. Sometimes it's enough. Sometimes, it's not. But somehow, I have to believe that as long as I'm not entirely alone, it'll all work out --someday, somehow. I mean, what is the alternative?
Failure is not an option, is it? Thanks, people, for just being out there and being crazy.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Good thing they're not dogs...
I think my kids and I are reaching an impasse. It's a sort of a mutual loathing thing, probably brought on by too much "bonding" time. The kicker was probably the road trip last week to my sister's, in which I was their personal valet and lackey, available 24/7, at their beck and call.
When are these kids going to start taking some responsibility for their lives?! One night on vacation, I sent The Boy to the bathroom to take a shower, and 20 minutes later, I checked on him, only to find that he was standing naked in the middle of the bathroom, waiting for God knows what. I told him, "Bathe!" He answered that he didn't have a towel. I pointed at the towel and returned 10 minutes later. He was still in the same place. "What?" He answered, "I'm afraid the hot water is too hot." Now, that's about when I start wondering when he'll start acting like a ten-year-old child and not a six-month-old baboon baby. (Note that his last complaint was just understandable enough to make me help him. But I probably shouldn't have.)
Or maybe it's just my expectations are too high.
This afternoon, after a long morning, I sent him to type up an essay he had written. I told him to take the laptop to the kitchen and type up the paragraph. After 15 minutes of getting, "I'm working on it," I found him playing with Microsoft Paint. "Why aren't you doing your work?" "I don't have my paragraph that I wrote." "Sooooo, go get it! What are you waiting for? Solve the problem. Go get it!" "I don't know where it is." "Where did you put it? It's in the drawer marked 'writing', where you put it. Go get it, take it to the table, open wordpad, type in the paragraph, and save it. Do not play, do not insert pictures, do not goof off any further! Do you understand?! Just DO IT!!"
The Husband doesn't understand why I yell so much, but I do. Example. I call over the partition wall, "Boy, go brush your teeth; it's bed time." No answer. I softly pronounce the word "cookie", and the answer comes back, "What? Cookies?" Busted. They hear, evaluate, and disregard. Little bastards.
Ahem. Sorry.
Seriously, what's up with that? After ten hours of being ignored by The Boy and having The Girl shout random phrases at me all day until I repeat them for her -- "'Every Dinosaur Poops' is a Dinosaur Train episode!" -- I get a little nasty. It's like having a really needy cat that won't leave you alone.
Even now, I get a sour feeling in my stomach even admitting this. I'm stuck homeschooling for the next eight years. There isn't a school in this county (public or private) that could teach The Girl, and The Boy is just too easily stressed to put back into the public schools right now. There is an aspie school that The Boy could attend, but their academic standards are pitiful. The moms of these kids are just desperate to send their boys to a school where they're not beaten up every day.
So here I am. I have no options. I can't change the children. I can't change my lifestyle. Oh, wait, wait for it -- I can only change myself. Doesn't that sound like a plaque for your kitchen wall?
Too bad I don't feel like it. I'm constantly changing myself, going the extra mile, doing the extra research, finding ways to teach reluctant, resistant children. And they have the nerve to behave as if this is their role -- to resist learning and be as rude about it as possible.
*sigh* We're going to a "music for young people" orchestra concert in The Big City this Friday. We got our reservations back in August before it sold out. Now, The Boy is refusing to go. I even played Spike Jones' William Tell Overture for him! Nothing is moving him from his position. He won't say why he doesn't want to go, except that it's stupid and he hates it. He gets stressed out easily, but this isn't reasonable, even for him. I'm going to drive an hour and a half each way to a concert during which my children will try to make me as miserable as possible. Yayyyyyy... Maybe I can glean some major public humiliation from it, too.
So, let's recap. They hate everything I hold dear, they ruin the furniture and barf on the rugs, they're uncooperative, and they make my life miserable. I hate to say what I'd do with them if they were dogs...
Stay tuned. Last I checked, the ASPCA won't take children. This will work itself out. Somehow. It always does.
When are these kids going to start taking some responsibility for their lives?! One night on vacation, I sent The Boy to the bathroom to take a shower, and 20 minutes later, I checked on him, only to find that he was standing naked in the middle of the bathroom, waiting for God knows what. I told him, "Bathe!" He answered that he didn't have a towel. I pointed at the towel and returned 10 minutes later. He was still in the same place. "What?" He answered, "I'm afraid the hot water is too hot." Now, that's about when I start wondering when he'll start acting like a ten-year-old child and not a six-month-old baboon baby. (Note that his last complaint was just understandable enough to make me help him. But I probably shouldn't have.)
Or maybe it's just my expectations are too high.
This afternoon, after a long morning, I sent him to type up an essay he had written. I told him to take the laptop to the kitchen and type up the paragraph. After 15 minutes of getting, "I'm working on it," I found him playing with Microsoft Paint. "Why aren't you doing your work?" "I don't have my paragraph that I wrote." "Sooooo, go get it! What are you waiting for? Solve the problem. Go get it!" "I don't know where it is." "Where did you put it? It's in the drawer marked 'writing', where you put it. Go get it, take it to the table, open wordpad, type in the paragraph, and save it. Do not play, do not insert pictures, do not goof off any further! Do you understand?! Just DO IT!!"
The Husband doesn't understand why I yell so much, but I do. Example. I call over the partition wall, "Boy, go brush your teeth; it's bed time." No answer. I softly pronounce the word "cookie", and the answer comes back, "What? Cookies?" Busted. They hear, evaluate, and disregard. Little bastards.
Ahem. Sorry.
Seriously, what's up with that? After ten hours of being ignored by The Boy and having The Girl shout random phrases at me all day until I repeat them for her -- "'Every Dinosaur Poops' is a Dinosaur Train episode!" -- I get a little nasty. It's like having a really needy cat that won't leave you alone.
Even now, I get a sour feeling in my stomach even admitting this. I'm stuck homeschooling for the next eight years. There isn't a school in this county (public or private) that could teach The Girl, and The Boy is just too easily stressed to put back into the public schools right now. There is an aspie school that The Boy could attend, but their academic standards are pitiful. The moms of these kids are just desperate to send their boys to a school where they're not beaten up every day.
So here I am. I have no options. I can't change the children. I can't change my lifestyle. Oh, wait, wait for it -- I can only change myself. Doesn't that sound like a plaque for your kitchen wall?
Too bad I don't feel like it. I'm constantly changing myself, going the extra mile, doing the extra research, finding ways to teach reluctant, resistant children. And they have the nerve to behave as if this is their role -- to resist learning and be as rude about it as possible.
*sigh* We're going to a "music for young people" orchestra concert in The Big City this Friday. We got our reservations back in August before it sold out. Now, The Boy is refusing to go. I even played Spike Jones' William Tell Overture for him! Nothing is moving him from his position. He won't say why he doesn't want to go, except that it's stupid and he hates it. He gets stressed out easily, but this isn't reasonable, even for him. I'm going to drive an hour and a half each way to a concert during which my children will try to make me as miserable as possible. Yayyyyyy... Maybe I can glean some major public humiliation from it, too.
So, let's recap. They hate everything I hold dear, they ruin the furniture and barf on the rugs, they're uncooperative, and they make my life miserable. I hate to say what I'd do with them if they were dogs...
Stay tuned. Last I checked, the ASPCA won't take children. This will work itself out. Somehow. It always does.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
the plague, premeditated murder, and toasted marshmallows
Has it been that long? Sorry y'all. I've been sick. It was like the flu of 1918 -- it killed all the middle-aged people but spared the old folk and small children. Anyway, the pestilence let up long enough for us to go on vacation to my sister's in the mountains. The Husband is in the middle of a semester and couldn't go with us, so my father asked to go along.
I learned a few things on the eight-hour drive up here.
1. I learned where I got my (bad) sense of direction. My father.
2. I also learned that if you hit a traffic jam, press the "detour" button on the GPS, miss a turn, press the "detour" button again, miss a turn, and press the "detour" button again, the damned GPS sends you in a circle, back to the rear of the traffic jam again.
3. I learned not to let The Old Man drive. That's right. I can now see why my mother divorced The Old Man when I was eight years old. I may have no sense of direction, but at least I have the humility to admit it and follow directions given to me VERY carefully.
I called my mother from the last rest stop, and she told me that I could kill him if he wrecked my car but that I really should use something close at hand so that it would appear less premeditated. Good advice there.
I learned a few things on the eight-hour drive up here.
1. I learned where I got my (bad) sense of direction. My father.
2. I also learned that if you hit a traffic jam, press the "detour" button on the GPS, miss a turn, press the "detour" button again, miss a turn, and press the "detour" button again, the damned GPS sends you in a circle, back to the rear of the traffic jam again.
3. I learned not to let The Old Man drive. That's right. I can now see why my mother divorced The Old Man when I was eight years old. I may have no sense of direction, but at least I have the humility to admit it and follow directions given to me VERY carefully.
I called my mother from the last rest stop, and she told me that I could kill him if he wrecked my car but that I really should use something close at hand so that it would appear less premeditated. Good advice there.
Anyway, we're here, and (almost) all has been forgiven. The leaves are just starting to turn, and the apples are all ripe. They had all of our favorites that we can't get Down South. My poor Husband grew up in Canadian apple country, so he gets a little misty eyed this time of year. I have a huge bag of Braeburns to take home. I see a lot of apple crisp in my future.
The kids have been very good, all things considered. Neither of them threw up in the car on the way up. Neither of then threw up in the car on the way through the mountains to the apple orchard. The Girl drew on the bedroom walls. The Boy has had his rude moments. But overall, I think they're doing okay. The Old Man is pretty easily pleased as long as we keep bringing him baked goods and warm coffee. The beagle has taken to sharing the recliner with my dad. We have pictures.
We're going to roast marshmallows as soon as it gets dark, so I'd better go clean up whatever the kids have gotten into. Wish me luck.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Where's that darned goat...?
The pestilence has overcome me. It started with The Husband 10 days ago and tortured him for a full week. I got it Thursday of last week, and am on the down side of it now. It's a full-blown head cold, only it completely lays you out for 36 hours and lasts a full week. I swear, this is the worst cold I've had in over ten years.
Where did it come from you ask? Church? Playgroup? The grocery? No. This was a University Grade (UG!!) illness, born and bred in the dormatories of an institute of higher learning. No child would go out and infect someone with THIS baby. The Husband brought this one home from work.
I'm thinking someone at the university there should start sacrificing goats to Apollo or something. Seriously.
Where did it come from you ask? Church? Playgroup? The grocery? No. This was a University Grade (UG!!) illness, born and bred in the dormatories of an institute of higher learning. No child would go out and infect someone with THIS baby. The Husband brought this one home from work.
I'm thinking someone at the university there should start sacrificing goats to Apollo or something. Seriously.
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