The Diary of a Wimpy (Big) Kid

Oliver is all better, but I am not. We had big plans to get things done in the world today, but they got cut a little short when every muscle in my body began to ache midway through our errands. I mean, I was really, really hurting. I felt like I had just turned 98 years old. You know when you have the flu, and everything hurts to the point that even your skin is sore to the touch? Yeah, that was me, in addition to a foreboding sore throat and swollen lymph nodes. I had to muddle through, though, because Michael was with his sister and their dad for a car show at the State Fairgrounds.



And muddle I did. Through feeling so crappy, I managed to haul 9 boxes into my trunk and donate them to Goodwill; take me and Oliver to Noodles for lunch (where he stared at an older woman of about 6 years old a little too obviously the whole time); go to Barnes and Noble for Father's Day gifts; and then peruse for flowers at the Home Depot. And there, standing between the Marigolds and Petunias, I knew I had finally hit bottom. Up until then, my errands served as distraction- I would either feel like crap at home or feel like crap being productive, so the latter made sense to me. That is, until I found myself standing over a 40 pound bag of topsoil that I couldn't lift onto the bottom of my cart. I tried, and in the process, dug a hole into the bag, causing the dirt to cascade out. I wanted to cry, but thought that might look bad. Instead, I plunked it down, looked around, grabbed the cart and bolted the other way, leaving that bag on the ground for some poor teenager working his summer job to clean up. And the worst part is, I didn't even feel bad about it at the time. A fever began to set in, and along with it some silly thoughts that included, "They have a procedure for that. A policy for how to deal with a torn bag of dirt on the ground, and they will follow it, and it will be fine."



Back at home, I took Ibuprofen and learned how to take care of Oliver without doing much. And to do it from my position lying on the floor. I made sure he didn't cut himself or set himself on fire, and beyond that, I didn't really care what he did or what he played with. Remotes? Daddy's reaaaaally nice watch? Capless pens? Pulling magazines one by one onto the floor? Go for it, baby.











I am such a wimpy sick kid compared to Oliver.