(My house, taken with the camera I gave the Man for his birthday--the camera is 90 years-old, and I like how it makes our house look 90 years-old, too. I got the idea for the camera, by the way, after reading the book the Man gave me for Christmas called Folk Photography: The American Real-Photo Postcard 1905-1930. I found the kind of camera a lot of the real-photo photographers used back in the day, the Kodak 3-A, on eBay.)
I have probably mentioned before that I'm pretty much a wimp. When I get sick, I am not stoical about it. I try not to whine, but I don't act the martyr, either.
The Man, on the other hand, refuses to admit when he's down for the count. He got the Something That's Going Around on Saturday. All he would admit to was that he might be getting something. That's all he admitted to on Sunday. Yesterday, he contemplated taking a sick day--only because he has hundreds accumulated, mind you, not because he's sick--but ultimately decided against it.
Today, although his cheeks are definitely hot and his eyes are definitely glassy, he has declared himself perfectly fit and healthy.
Jack, it would appear, takes after me. He got the Something That's Going Around on Friday. He did not deny it. He didn't milk it, but he owned it. Then, mid-afternoon on Sunday, he began asking me every five minutes if he still had a fever. I saw where this was leading. He was making the case for not going to school on Monday. And the fact is, he still had a fever, so we didn't make him go, though he probably could have sucked it up and gone.
Again, yesterday, mid-afternoon, the asking every five minutes: Do I have a fever? And yes, he was still warm. That is the way of this bug; the fever lasts and lasts. It's not a rock 'em, sock 'em fever. More like a 99.5 fever. But it's the kind of fever that likes to kick back and put its feet up. It's in no hurry.
This is a tenacious, pernicious bug. At some point, you just have to soldier on. Even me. I still felt bad on Saturday, but I decided it was time to get on with my life. I went to the store, I made pasta for Sunday night dinner. I decided I would go the next afternoon to the Mother/Daughter book club I'd been invited to by one of Jack's classmates to discuss my books. I swept the kitchen floor. I made pizza.
And so today it was decided that Jack needed to soldier on, too. We sent him to school, right after we gave him the Oscar for Best Performance from a Child Who Really, Really Wants You to See How Much He's Suffering and Realize What Cruel Parents You Truly Are. I promised I would come get him if he started to drag and needed to come home. I suspect he'll be fine. I suspect he will be surrounded by a bunch of other kids whose parents kicked them out of the house feeling not feeling 100% to the good.
Oh, but you should have seen him dragging his backpack and his trombone down the sidewalk at school when I dropped him off. Oh, that poor boy. I almost called him back to the car, almost took him home again and tucked him in his warm, comfy bed.
Thanks for all your prayers for David and Becky. I'll keep you updated.
Also: postcard people--I finally got some more sent out yesterday. Look for one in the mail soon!
Wild Bill and the Champagne Chairs
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