The creepin’ crud is making its way through our ranks. My mom always calls it “the creepin’ crud,” not “a mild but tenacious strain of respiratory discomfort” or “a cold.” I’d like to blame Nyte’s co-workers, but we could just as well have picked it up at the grocery store or the doctor’s office. Goodness knows you can’t wash your hands at the doctor’s without bathing in antibacterial stuff of every scent, color and viscosity. Chez Cranky-Face tends to be of the belief that Dirt Is Good For You (backed up by my virologist mother-in-law), not to be confused with Yay Delicious Germs, which is different by a factor of laziness. I have to pay extra attention at the store to find the hand soap that is just soap, not soap + antibacterial chemicals. This is a big long topic that I’m not going into right now, but suffice it to say that generally speaking, we are pretty damn healthy. This particular crud has not been terrible, just annoying enough to make me too tired to do non-essential housework for about three days, while making me feel justified in taking an extra nap here and there.
I’ve been feeling better today, which means I’ve made efforts to catch up a bit. When the Podling hammered his peanut butter & cracker sandwiches into crumbs all over his room, I had the energy to make him eat the bigger pieces, then start to clean up after himself. Alas, the room has been a wreck for well over a week, and there were pieces of food everywhere. He has been sleeping in his pop-up tent instead of his crib (whatever works), and every stuffed animal he owned was crammed into that tent, along with three blankets and two full-sized pillows. Naturally, that was where he chose to go all John Henry on his breakfast, so there were greasy crumbs EVERYWHERE. This meant we had a race to pick up all his toys before the Big Bad Vacuum cleaner sucked them up.
Peanut actually behaved through most of this; she even let me fold two baskets of laundry before she became inconsolable, and it was at that point that the Podling felt it appropriate to go sit on the big potty to do his business. I don’t mind that, it’s just that he doesn’t know the appropriate amount of toilet paper to use, and afterward he prefers to dance around the house with a dirty backside, congratulating himself. You can see why this might sometimes be problematic.
I found him perched on the toilet in nothing but his aviator-style sunglasses, hunched over his Gameboy Color merrily button-mashing while he uh…you know. I considered taking a picture, but didn’t really feel like explaining it to the D.A. someday, and I couldn’t share it with you guys anyway, unless you also wanted to make friends with your own local law enforcement. You know how it goes.
After taking care of him, I realized that the Peanut was awfully quiet. I found her asleep amongst the stacks of clean laundry, curled up around my stuff in particular, her mouth nibbling at my clean underpants instead of her pacifier. (Don’t worry, I made sure she was breathing just fine.) I almost took a picture, but…well…see above.
I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed, or proud. A little of column A, a little of column B…