I am going to the doctor today. “Oh, how interesting. As soon as I finish yawning, I can’t wait to read more.” I know, it’s not necessarily the most rear on edge of seat topics. However, I only go to the doctor when I’m having a baby or potentially dying or being carried down stairs by my sisters-in-law after my legs insisted that the world was flat and then walked me off of a rounded curb.
I’m going today because I’m pretty sure I have some sort of respiratory infection that requires medicinal relief more potent than watching Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman on an endless loop. Love the prairie skirt, by the by.
I called. I made an appointment. I hope I have pneumonia.
If I have anything less than pneumonia, I will still have to make dinner and heave children into carseats and go buy toilet paper in my yoga pants that may or may not have a hole in the crotchular area.
If I have anything less than pneumonia, I will have to say no when my children ask to watch Scooby Doo for 36 hours and I will have to care if they happen to catch the last 20 minutes of Army Wives I put on while the baby naps. I don’t want to have to care. Help me, pneumonia.
When I get that call to work on the school handbook, I can cough and say, “Next week? Pneumonia.” and they will say, “Pneumonia, you poor thing. Can I bring you some chicken soup?” and I will say, “I love you. And you too, pneumonia.”
If I have pneumonia, the laundry will have to pile up because I can’t quite make it up the stairs with the wheezing and I can point dramatically to the stain stick when the children show me their newest blood, grass, cat feces and rocky road combo on their white shorts. “I’d love to help, but, pneumonia.”
I’m not saying I need a vacation, but, if I can get a doctor’s note, that would be swell.
“Give mom peace and quiet for 24 – 48 hours. Repeat, if necessary.”
*crosses fingers* Pneumonia!