Now Bob's sick.
It wouldn't be a holiday this year unless one of us was sick. On Thanksgiving, Emme came down with a case of the flu that knocked her out for three days, passed it to me, I passed it to James.
Last weekend the kids went to a birthday party for a friend; one of the parents brought their strep-infected kid who hadn't yet been put on antibiotics. Bob came down with a fever, runny nose and a sore throat yesterday; today he was 102 and went to the doctor. The swab test was positive for strep. I could kill that dad.
So after the pediatrician looked at him I'm in the drug store getting a prescription for some antibiotic filled. Bob elected to stay in the van, as he sometimes does -- he hates going into to stores unless it's Toys R Us or Electronics Boutique.
After a time Bob walks in -- he'd gotten out of the van and came into the store, growing impatient with the delay. His little face was pinched and red with frustrated tears, blanched because of the illness.
"What's taking you so long?" he demanded. Then he blocked one nostril off with a knuckle and blew as hard as he could, spraying a clear plume of snot down the front of his winter jacket.
True story.
I love the holidays.