Death Becomes Her

I have apparently contracted the Black Plague. I can't remember being this sick in quite some time. The kids, of course, are on Spring Break. That means I have both of them. Home. With me. All day. With me.

After a night of sleeping like I was buried alive while breathing through coffee stirrers, I got up to face the day. I stumbled downstairs, oozing my own weight in mucous, and quickly realized we (meaning me) had a problem. No food. No food during Spring Break. Bad. Very bad. Had I known I was going to fall victim to the Black Death I would have stocked up on fruit snacks. I flopped onto the couch and commenced with the moaning and nose blowing. Moan. Blow. Blow. Moan. Then the kids woke up.

I decided that this situation could be handled if I just sat my children down appealed to their sense of reason. After all, they are not savages and could clearly understand the gravity of the situation...what with the Grim Reaper lurking ominously behind me amid the piles of crumpled tissues.

"Kids, mommy is feeling pretty sick today. I am pretty much out of commission and will need you two to pitch in and help out. I know you guys can do this. I am really depending on you. I need your cooperation. I need you to help each other out and do for yourselves a lot today."

They nodded earnestly. See? No problem.

Five seconds passed.

"Mama, can you get me cereal?"
"I can't find my Gameboy game. I left it right here. Moooom! Can you help me!?"
Houston, we have a problem. Rotten kids.
Thus began the whining and pleading. And the kids were no picnic either.

I knew I was going to have to get my hands on some food...and decongestant. Lots of decongestant. I was forced to get dressed and drag out to the grocery store. The kids were offered the privilege of picking two snack items each if they could just cooperate and get us in and out of the store quickly. This lead to much switching and bartering.
"No, wait. I want to change my cereal for fruit by the foot"
"I don't want theeese. I want cookies."
With selections made and $30 worth of cold medicine in our cart, we made it to the checkout lane. The checkout lane which was decorated with all sorts of useless Easter basket filler crap. The useless Easter basket filler crap which was the root of my daughter's screaming fit. I slunk out of the store with a screaming 2 year old and tissue stuffed up one nostril. Ignoring the stares. Oh, like you have never had a day like this, you judgmental bastards. I breathe my Plague on you.

In the car, coming home, I explain to my little darlings that I will need them to help me bring in the groceries - 90% of which are snacks for them. My son brought in one bag. The bag with his cookies in it. My daughter unloaded a bag because it was too heavy. She carried in the empty shopping bag, leaving it's contents strewn about the garage. Little ingrates.

"Mom, can you open these?"
"No, as a matter of fact I can't - seeing as how I am dying."

They spent the next hour spilling cereal, goldfish crackers, and various juices all
over the kitchen while I attempted to remain conscious after my pounding my cocktail of cold medicines.

The natives were getting restless. Well, restless-er, more restless-er...you get the idea. My son began his wear mom down technique because he wanted to go out front and play with his friends. My daughter went in the backyard naked and refused to come in, despite my frantic waving of Princess panties. My son screamed at his sister and refused to comply when sent to his room. Leaving me chasing him around our yard, screaming threats like a lunatic. Finally, I caught up with him, planting the Vulcan death grip on the back of his neck, when a car passing slowed, and stopped, apparently hoping to intervene in my obvious abuse. Great. Just great.

The only way for this day to be saved is for me to take a shot of Nyquil, and pass out drooling, while dreaming of Matthew McConaughey spoon-feeding me soup and cleaning my house. Heck, who am I kidding, I'll settle for just the Nyquil.