An Open Letter … Or ThreeMarch 24, 2010 at 4:07 pm | Posted in Bun, Family, Giggles, Lollipop | 22 Comments
We’ve had a helluva month, haven’t we?
I appreciate you hanging around as long as you have. I know you’re just looking out for our immune systems, making them stronger, better, tougher. But we are not pick-up trucks. We do not have Hemi inside. We’d just as soon not have your gnarly bacteria greasing our gears and cylinders.
So, please, I beg you: Go. Far. Away. Leave us be, with our scratchy throats and drippy noses and chestfuls of phlegm. That’s plenty to remember you by, thanks.
Before you go, though, could you please do a few things for me? Like the laundry. The piles and piles of sheets and towels and socks and princess dresses you’ve infiltrated. Could you bleach them till they’re cardboard-stiff wash them?
Could you run to the grocery store and restock? I’m thinking we’ll need 27 boxes of lotion-y Puffs goodness, 8 bags of cough drops (the lemon ones), and the value-box of hot chocolate. With marshmallows please.
One last thing: Could you take the puke smell with you? Take it out of the couch. Out of the My Little Ponies and board books and tiny, tiny grout lines on my tile. Out. Of. My. Nose. Where I’m afraid it’s seared permanently.
Thanks so much. And don’t let the Lysol hit you on the way out.
I want you to know: I’ve tried so very hard to do right by you. I’ve eaten my fruits and veggies and protein and chocolate. I’ve provided copious amounts of water. The occasional nip of Dr. Pepper. All the Cadbury you can eat. We’ve enjoyed ourselves.
And, so, I hope you can forgive me. For this one little thing. The cough syrup.
I wasn’t going to do it, but your daddy made me. I was going to tough it out, be stoic, stay un-medicated. I was going to ignore my lungs exploding and my throat catching fire through every convulsive cough. But he brought it home: Robitussin. Cherry-flavored holy water in a pre-measured cup. I had to.
I looked at the “safe” list from the doctor. I Googled. I read and re-read the box. And I still wasn’t going to. Then Daddy said, “Just two little teaspoons. Think how much better you’ll sleep.”
And he had me. Sleep.
So, Bun, if you could do me a little favor. When the medicine gets to you? Could you ignore it? Just leave it be when it crosses the sacred placental barrier. Just say no. Just to be safe.
I promise, when I’m feeling better, we’ll go back to our usual menu. All the Cadbury you can eat.
I wanted to say: I’m sorry. I’m sorry I called you today. In the middle of your meeting or download or bring-up or whatever it was. I know you are busy. I know you have So. Many. Things. to get done before Bun arrives. I know.
And thank you. For answering anyway. For sensing how much I needed to hear your voice. For listening. For deciphering through my tears and coughs and snot.
Because there was puke. Again. On the couch. In her hair. In layers and layers of Cinderella-blue tulle. And because my sinuses ached. My throat screamed. My swollen body dreaded the imminent bending, stooping, scrubbing, scouring, lifting. Because all I wanted to do was curl up and close my eyes. And I couldn’t.
You said you’d be right there. And I breathed. And said, “No, I can do this.” And I could, I did, I am. All I needed was your voice. You. Thank you.
And Chick-Fil-A for dinner? That sounds lovely. Can you convince me to have more cough syrup? Then, I might even be able to taste it.