Rules for Being Sick

Dear Kid (and any future kids),

I believe there may have been a misunderstanding when it comes to being sick around here. In the world where these things are controllable by you, and with the absurd thought that I actually would expect such things of you, let’s put on our sarcastic goggles and repeat after me:

1. I will not be sick on a Friday.

2. I will not be an asshole.

Let’s clarify, just to hone-in on how I really feel about these two new rules.

First of all, don’t be sick on Fridays. I don’t mind going to work on Fridays. We close at 3 and I get a nice lunch out with the office. Not to mention that since your mom is still young and fun and wonderful – everyone just assumes I’m using your illness to cover-up a hangover. I mean, let’s get this straight – I’m not ashamed to send in photographic proof in the form of a vomit covered bed or diarhea diaper – but maybe we could just spare everyone the agony and make it a Monday. Deal?

head

Secondly, I get that you’re sick and all, but since I’ve now been presumed a party-animal and am using a 8 hour sick/vacation day on a 6 hour work-day, let’s have some fun. Nothing says quality bonding time like ice baths and snot rockets. What’s that? You don’t feel good? Let’s snuggle! Your infected bug bite so swollen you have to squint out of your right eye? We’ll play pirates! My point here is this: my time with you is SACRED, so please refrain from kicking me, whining and screaming at me all day. Hellooo, this is my vacation!

Your cooperation in this matter is much appreciated.

In the event you should find either of these rules unreasonable or unattainable, feel free to revert to the “unwritten rule #347”.

“Unwritten Rule #347”:

Piss and moan your little head off because I knew what I was getting myself into the day I peed on that stick. Cry and kick and scream because mommy tends to take 3 tries before she can figure out what is wrong and another 7 tries to make it right. I promise I’ll (eventually) take the hint and leave your food and water on the table and stay the fu*k out of your way. But don’t worry, I’ll be psycho-stalking your miniature maniac ass, like a shadow with lysol and klenex, just waiting for the slightest sign I’m needed.

Love,

Mommy

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