Monday, October 22, 2012


So...I'm sick. I'm pretty sure I caught Large Fry's bronchitis.  (I kind of already had the cold, and with my asthma, this should not have surprised me, but it did.)

I can't tuck in kids at bedtime. I feel like death warmed over.  I'm pretty sure that, at this point, I'd probably have to be dead three days to feel worse.  Whatever this is, it's settled in my lungs and I'm doing an admirable job of trying to hack them out while still keeping them contained in my chest cavity.  (More than you wanted to know, I'm sure, but I've been on Nyquil for pretty much the last 24 hours.)

At bedtime, Small Fry climbed into bed next to me.  "I'm gonna snuggle wif you til bedtime," she tells me.  I changed the channel from Investigation Discovery to PBS's Sprout (which I loathe, but is child-safe; ID is not) and decided I didn't care how much I hated Sprout.  My baby wanted to snuggle with me.

She ran out when Hubby called to her and had her and Medium Fry get ready for bed while Large Fry nebulized downstairs.

The twins wanted me to come to their room and tuck them in.  Getting up and walking down the hall sounded like a bad idea to me.  Sooo...I sang to them right here in my bedroom.  If, that is, you can call my raspy frog-voice "singing."  I kissed both of them on the cheek at the appropriate point in the song, and they headed down the hallway, happy that I'd at least done that much of the bedtime routine.

A few minutes later, Large Fry came in for hug and kiss.  Then she skipped out to go to her room and get in bed.

Hubby followed her into her room and passed gas on the way in.  "Large Fry!" he accused.

And that was what I heard of the conversation.  After he finished tucking her in, he came back to the bedroom and related the rest of the conversation to me.

"Daddy, you lied!" Large Fry had said, aghast.  (Lying is something we don't tolerate in our house.)

"Noooo," Hubby had replied, teasingly.

"You lied!" Large insisted.


Large Fry got mad, and balled up her fists and covered her cheeks as Hubby began to sing the "Goodnight Song."

"You're not gonna kiss my cheek! I'll kiss my own cheek!" she said.

And so he sang...

Good night, good night, I'll tuck you in, good night. You'll kiss your own cheek...

Large kissed her fist, touched it to her cheek, and then covered her cheek with her fist again. you will sleep, now close your eyes, good night.  ♫

And, almost as if on cue, Large Fry passed gas herself...two small poots.

"Daddy!" she accused.

"You lied!" Hubby retorted.

"I copied you!"

Smart girl.


  1. Hope you feel better! Sounds like Hubby has things under control, even if he is outnumbered 3 to 1.

    1. I'm getting there. Yesterday was the first day I felt even close to about 90%, and I promptly proceeded to wear myself out.

      Looks like I'll be sitting around watching it rain for the next couple of days (and mediating Fry fights), so it shouldn't be quite the madhouse rush the last two days have been.


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