So this week (this last week, any way) has been awful. Turns out I’ve got a sinus infection that makes me hack up green snot. I’ve lost the sense of taste. I can’t smell a damned thing. Red won’t look at me straight in the eyes because I haven’t plucked my eyebrow since the beginning of May. (Singular. Eye-brow. Fourteen days of not looking in the mirror equals a verdant thicket of dark black hairs that my glasses only partially cover.)
Oh, and I’m pretty sure my kitchen reeks of rotten eggs and/or trashcan juice, but I just don’t care.
Aren’t you glad you just read all that?
I may be a unibrowed adult with a filthy kitchen, no sense of smell, and no ability to discern if my food has been poisoned, but dammit, y’all, I’m still an effective mother. You may place that “Competent Parent” award in the airlock near my front door. You probably won’t be infected that way.
So why do I deserve an award? Well, for one: my system is full of Amoxicilina straight from a farmacia in Quintana Roo, Meh-hee-co. That’s right. I didn’t leave my son alone to fend for himself while I sought out a properly certified physician in this country. My dad offered me some smuggled Mexican antibiotics, and I jumped at the chance. Two hours at the doctor’s office and a $100 out-of-pocket bill, or drugs that may or may not be legitimate? What would you do, America?
And second: around the time my dad dropped off my ill-gotten pharmaceuticals, Boo decided to throw a hissy fit because I suggested (read: threatened with waterboarding if he didn’t comply) that he pick up all his toys. He refused (naturally) but decided to skip the whole getting yelled at thing by marching straight over to his little time out chair by the front door. He sat there for two whole minutes without moving a muscle. My dad was so very proud. Like, “Yay, Chelsie. He might not end up in prison after all!”
Little victories, y’all. You’ve got to take them when they come.
Edited to add: I don’t watch a lot of TV shows religiously, but Survivor is one that I do. The finale was tonight. I won’t spoil the winner for everyone–but it rhymes with corn on the cob. And I want to have his babies. (Sorry, Red.) I want to have his little dark haired babies and teach him how to use an ‘R’ at the end of words and rid him of his filthy Yankee ways. I can’t help it. It’s a sickness.
Mmmhmmm. Or that might just be the amoxicilina talking. I’m not sure.