Hopefully this year will mark the low point in our family Christmas history. Truman woke up this morning and was utterly underwhelmed by the magical glow of the Christmas tree lights on all the presents Santa left. He just wanted to lay on our bed and whimper–he felt sick. Asher wasn’t much better, but then again, one-year olds just kinda do their thing anyway.
After we’d coaxed Tru into opening all his presents, he flopped over onto the floor, head on his arm and muttered, “This was the best Christmas ever.” No emotion, no smiles, totally deadpan. Later, after unloading an intestine’s worth of yellow oil slick, he wanted to take a bath. At 9am. At least he played with his new dinosaurs. Post-bath, he put on his clothes, marched into the kitchen and puked all over the floor. I’m grateful it was in the kitchen and not on the carpet.
Once we’d gotten Tru’s puke cleaned up, Asher needed to get changed and dressed and lo and behold! He’s covered in red dots, from neck to feet! Looks like a rash, or maybe some kind of pox. Fortunately he has a regularly sheduled checkup tomorrow morning. Geez. It doesn’t help that his nose is leaking like a faucet. Every time I turn around he’s got big gobs of snot/spit hanging off his head or strung between his nose/hand/mouth. Gah.
Of course, Amy’s stumbling through all this herself because she feels under the weather too. Plus, she cut a big old chunk out of her finger last week, and had to have the wound cauterized because it wouldn’t stop bleeding, since she “nicked an atery.” So she’s operating on only nine fingers since the cut one is all wrapped up in bandages and unusable.
I’m feeling okay though. Knock on wood.