For the past four days I have done very little other than thwart the attempts of my lungs to escape my body. They have tried to get out through my nose, through my mouth, and, in one spectacular display, tried to burst through my chest wall via explosive coughing.
Now, normally when I am this sick, I will take time off of work, climb into bed, take enough cold medicine to risk blindness, and sleep until I am either better, or until my upper lip is so desperately in need of a wax that I look like Sancho Panza. Or, rather, that's what I used to normally do -- P.M. No, not Tylenol P.M., though I do love that shit. By P.M. I am actually referring to "pre-Meg." Because of my adorable, daughter, I took a completely different tact when dealing with this illness: washing my hands forty times a day, taking NON-DROWSY cold medicine, and chanting the words "please don't let the baby get sick, please don't let the baby get sick."
Yeah, that didn't work. Meg is now fighting her own lung battle.
Luckily, she could no be more different than me when it comes to dealing with a cold. Really, I have never seen anyone so chipper while sick. The only time she isn't smiling is when we have to suction out her nose so she can breathe without sounding like an asthmatic pug. She is sleeping more than usual, but when she's awake she is just as smiley and chatty as normal. If I didn't love her so much I would swear she is trying to make me look wussy. I mean, Ryan hasn't come out and said it yet, but I pretty sure the thought "why can't Libby be more like Meg when she's sick" has crossed his mind. I can see it in his eyes.
Yeah. Well we'll see how judgy he is when his lungs decide to pull a Steve McQueen. I'm giving him 48 hours before he is begging for NyQuil.
And then Meg I will just laugh until we cough.