Tuesday morning, I woke to find that my already-low voice had dropped an octave and a half. Hubby had to work, the twins had counseling appointments, so did I, and so adulting was going to be necessary for several hours. I don't think I'd said more than two sentences to Hubby before he determined I needed to see a doctor, and soon. Yeah, he was probably right.
So I squeezed in a run to the urgent care nearby between the twins' counseling sessions and mine. Sinus infection and antibiotics and a trip to the pharmacy. Yes, I sound terrible. I feel terrible. It's a matched set. I told my counselor she got the warmed-up voice that had moved a few steps back up the scale.
Then I went home and crashed until it was time to pick up Hubby, dozing through the kids getting home from school.
On Wednesday, I had never been so glad that I did not have anywhere to go. I got up long enough to get the kids off to school; that was it. As I sat half-comatose in the kitchen, waiting for the twins to head out to the bus stop momentarily so that I could go back to bed, Middle said, "Oh! I need to get my duck!"
She'd better hurry. Almost time to go. Almost time for me to fall over.
Middle dashed back into the kitchen. "Mom, will you babysit my duck today?"
Long-time readers will know this is a sacred charge. And I haven't been asked to babysit Duckie in weeks. Months, maybe.
I suspected this was less about me babysitting Duckie and more about Duckie babysitting me, since I was sick. Middle was giving me her best friend to help me feel better.
It warmed my heart, if not the cockles of my lungs.
"Let me know if he's bad!" Middle shouted as she zipped out the door.
I coughed, hobbled over to close the door behind them, and shuffled back to bed.
When Hubby woke awhile later to head to work, he observed, "There's a duck in our bed."
"I know," I hacked. "Middle asked me to babysit. Think it's more the other way around."
I drifted back to sleep and blearily looked at the world again around 1 p.m., and forced myself to get up and dressed. I needed food, and tucked Duckie in my jeans pocket as I moseyed to the kitchen.
I messaged Waffle about my companion and Middle's parting shout.
"I propose that Duckie be naughty and get caught on photo," she replied.
That sounded like more fun than anything I'd done all week, including trying to liberate my own lungs from my chest. Even if I was still exhausted.
What mischief can a small stuffed duckie with a rattle in its bum get into?
Lots, as it turns out.
|He tried to eat my lunch.|
|Then he tried to steal my mini m&ms.|
|He attacked Koa with a fork.|
|He dove head-first into a gift bag that wasn't his.|
|He tried to ride Mika. (Poor Mika.)|
|He partied and tried to dance with a flower.|
|He trophy-hunted a Cootie in the hallway.|
|Vanity, thy name is Duckie.|
After all that adventuring, we were quite tired.
So we took a nap.
Incidentally, Middle howled when I showed her these pictures.
I can't wait to be asked to babysit Duckie again.