A better name for Louis might be Typhoid Mary, or perhaps the Trojan Horse. He came to us last Monday with a runny nose, and now every single person in the dayhome has a streaming head cold.
Normally this time of year a cold would not decimate the ranks so thoroughly, but it’s been raining every weekday since the May long weekend, and that always makes the viruses spread more quickly.
It’s not even really possible to play outside despite the wet, because it’s also unseasonably cold (I’ve had the heat turned on for days) and with everyone already sick, getting them wet and cold seems like a bad idea.
So I’m wipingwipingwiping all the noses. And washing my hands even more than my usual baseline of a thousand times a day. And cleaning every surface with Lysol wipes (not my usual practice, I’m generally a soap & water girl) to try and keep ahead of the horrible plague.
WHERE IS SUMMER? I am indignant. Also freezing. And bitter that the FDA took away our infant cold medication, because fuck science, that stuff used to make stuffy-headed babies feel better.
And then last night Harry discovered that his pet snail had died, and that precipitated a guilt-induced 45 minute crying jag because he feels that Luke Snailwalker’s demise was his fault. (No, you murderous lot, I didn’t kill it. Not unless I can kill things WITH MY MIND, which is kind of awesome but also terrifying in its implications, because I think a lot of unholy things about a lot of people in the run of a week.)
Did you know that nose-picking two year olds love nothing better than to grab a baby’s soother and ram it back in his mouth crawling with their horrid germs? TRUTH.
This post really has no point, beyond that I’m tired of being a cold, damp, telekinetic crank with pockets full of used Kleenex and a head full of sleep deprivation.
Tell me something amusing, okay?