We need to talk about what a failure you are. I’m sorry to be harsh (no, I’m not), but I feel a little tough love is warranted here. Time and time again, when put to the test, when the moment arrives for you to pull on your big girl panties and deal with things, you have left me a feverish, snotty mess.
Let’s face facts, with two kids in school germs are going to continue to storm my body like the allied forces on the beaches of Normandy. Half-eaten goldfish crackers will be crammed into my mouth in surprise toddler sneak attacks. Sloppy kisses, heavy on the tainted saliva, will occur. Fingers sticky with a substance of unknown origin will continue to find their way into my nose and mouth and that kid in preschool with the constantly running nose will inevitably be my daughter’s favorite playmate.
The barrage of germs will not cease until my children reach adulthood and so I need you to bring your A-game. I know it’s a job with crappy hours and little to no pay, but I’m going to level with you. If I ever have to boil hotdogs for two children again while deep in the throws of a stomach virus I am going to lose more than my lunch. Do you even know what it’s like to be forced to watch Ratatouille, a movie about a rat preparing French cuisine, on repeat when you haven’t kept solid food down in two days?
Have you ever sat in the carpool lane with a plastic bag in your lap? Because thanks to you sleeping on the job, I have. Pro tip: those things aren’t leak proof. You’ll want to double bag it.
Have a little compassion, Immune System. I’m fighting on the front lines every day. I need to know you have me and my mucous membranes covered. We’re in this together.
Parenting from the fetal position