Night of the Living Histamines

Three out of four Huff family members are sick.  I'm passing out cold medicine like Halloween candy. 

They all have different sick styles, too.  Lindsay lies in a puddle, with only the occasional whimper to alert me that she's still conscious.  Campbell forgets there's anything wrong with him until he notices he can no longer breathe, and then collapses into a truly impressive coughing fit.  And Phillip gets Mad.  He's always been that way - doesn't notice any physical clues to illness - just gets angrier and angrier until one of us asks if he's feeling unwell, and then he answers, "Well, yeah, I guess I am about to die."  He actually went to work today.  God help his co-workers: We, who also have to live with him, salute you.

I've been slinging chicken soup for a couple of days now, and living in fear that it's my turn next.  And when I say "fear", it's more like mathematical certainty.  There is NO chance I will outrun this crud - not when I'm surrounded on all sides.  I've been wearing a hazmat suit and shooting disinfectant like a teenage boy with Axe body spray, but I can't buck these odds forever.  Nope, all I can do is make sure the groceries are bought and the medicine cabinet is stocked, and wait for the inevitable.

As a career germophobe, I often wonder if the threat of catching a cold is worse than actually getting one.  And I know it's just the crazy talking when I think "Okay, enough already - I'd like to just get sick and get it over with".  But nope, I'm still clear of sinus, smooth of throat, and otherwise pretty much functional. 

Which leaves only me available for daily chores such as dog-walking, dishwashing and lozenge-fetching.  I stepped over somebody's carcass with a laundry basket under one arm and retrieved a wadded tissue from the floor with the salad tongs.  And it crossed my mind for the jillionth time that this Mommy thing is just Super Glamorous. 

Man, I hope nobody's been sneezing on my yarn.