Wherein I Throw My Hands to the Heavens and Beg for a Mack Truck to end my Misery

"You're here every February," observed the new face on my mental dart board, formerly known as my pediatrician, "Yep, this is the third one in a row." Interesting tid-bit for you, dear readers, to stow away when playing Jenn trivia and selecting "Jenn's Least Favorite Month" for a thousand, Alex.

I mostly just wanted to get to the drug part--the part where he dispensed two sheets of paper that would deliver the Queens from what has ravaged them this past week, the same virus that is now settling into my bones.

Prior to him entering the room, it was a fiasco of giant proportions. I kept looking around for surveillance cameras, lest the real dwellers of the castle be exposed.

Little A was rolling around on the floor, farting, lifting up her shirt to display her "big fat belly" and "boofs", laughing while simultaneously gagging on the stuff rolling down the back of her throat.

Big A delivered this exact observation:
"She is ill-mannered and ill-behaved." (Eyebrows lifted from her head resting on the physician's desk. No, shockingly, she will not have 54 candles on her next birthday cake, just ten)

How can I argue with that, what with the gas passing and snarfing noises as a sound track?

Enter physician, who upon detailed inspection and various swabbing delivered the devastating news that he'd test for strep, but his educated guess was that it was the strain of flu that he'd been seeing for the past month.

The strain that lasts for TWO WEEKS. He then had the audacity to deliver no hope of treating it, like not even a plug for echinacea or anything. "Chicken soup and fluids," said he, as I thought, "Take me now Lord, please" and toyed with the idea of begging him to admit us to the hospital. A vacation, ya know?

We delivered the offensive swabs to the lab (*the bazillion dollars for the appointment and tests apparently does not include actual delivery of the swabs to the lab--we were responsible for that. This is totally a different post). Little A marveled at the wonder of the elevator, "We go up! We go down! We go up and down! Up and down! Up and down!" I'm not feeling so insistent today that education is a good thing.

Rather, I'm feeling like the mack truck of my current dreams side-swiped me and left me for dead. And I don't even get to bask in my sickness and have other people fawn over me and press cold compresses upon my forehead and rub my back as I vomit, because, somehow, I'm the mom. I'm doing all the good stuff that my loved ones did for me, once again reveling in how completely amazing they are, how totally blessed I am, how I'd give about anything to go back there, just for a day.