Hey, guys. I’ve got some really, really awesome news. Remember how my boys and my wife all had a cold? Well, I caught it!.. Wait. Did I say “awesome?” I meant “It sucks a bag of Tarbagan Marmot crap.”
If you remember, this is the second cold we’ve suffered through in about a month. Maybe a little over a month. I’m not sure because during the last cold I got so delirious I lost track of time. And I’m not entirely sure, but I think I also birthed one of those alien worm things from Dreamcatcher.
The irony is, rather than all of us weathering the bug at the same time, everyone else is on the tail end of it. In fact, the boys have been in chipper moods for the past two days and last night my wife had her first night of good sleep in a long time. I, however, woke up with a throat so sore, I feel like I tried to deep throat a rotary hammer drill.
Last time, I tried to fight it off with rest and vitamins. This time, I’m going all Tango & Cash on it. I’m headed to the drug store to get any and all medicines/rubs/weaponry that I can use to pistol-whip this thing into submission while also delivering quippy one-liners. Take that, biology!
The boys are sick again. Maybe. It could be teething. All I know is they’re both sneezing, cranky, have runny noses and Wyatt looks like Jim Carroll before he cleaned up. Wait… Did Jim Carroll ever clean up?
Wyatt has nearly a full mouth of teeth already. He may also have a few of Boone’s. Plus, their snot is clear. For you non-parents, I know that sounds like I’m just offering gross details, but snot color is important. Green or yellow snot means an illness. Or your child has been snorting lines of Kool-Aid mix again.
If it does turn out to be another bug, I’m going to do my best to avoid catching it. The last one incapacitated me for weeks. After I post this, I’m purchasing a Hazmat suit and maybe a full-body condom and possibly a trough of Lysol. It may frighten the boys, but it’s for the best. “Come here, son. Give Darth Vader a hug.”
Dear Open Letter To Pat Robertson:
I thought, when penning you, that I was being really original. Alas, it turns out you were just one of a myriad of Open Letters To Pat Robertson written by everyone from legendary funnyman Norman Lear to some lady in one of those M states like Minnesota or Missouri or Iowa. I have to admit, hers was pretty awesome (2nd letter down).
You may be asking what you had to do with parenting or fatherhood. I may not have made it very clear, but I wrote you because I wanted to address people who fill the world — a world now inhabited by my children — with hate. I found it especially offensive that someone would fill the world with hate in the name of God. Well, it appears I may have induced God’s wrath by writing you. The cold I got from the boys last week has moved from my sinuses to my ear to my throat to my chest. And for some reason, I keep remembering that Jim Henson died of pneumonia.
During this holiday weekend, I’ve only seen my boys in hazy intervals between bouts of unconsciousness. So, Open Letter To Pat Robertson, since you seem to have a red Bat-Phone to God, please tell him to get this cold out of me. In the meantime, I promise I’ll go back to less political posts. Instead, I’ll do the wry observations about toy pianos and poopy diapers you’ve come to expect. Thanks… and, um, amen?
Sincerely,
David Vienna
TheDaddyComplex.com
Everybody in my house is sick except my wife. For the record, we didn’t get it from our nanny because Wyatt started coughing over the weekend, before she returned to work. So, our nanny is still recovering, Wyatt and Boone are both coughing and I woke up this morning feeling like my sinuses went on a date with Chris Brown.
And today, everybody’s fussy. Me, too. I blame Wyatt.
I don’t know why, but when I get sick, my body craves junk food. Like right now, I’m debating whether to plod up to the New York-style pizza joint on Melrose or drive to the greasy burger joint on Santa Monica for lunch. Since, my boys are built with half of my DNA, I decided to see if I could placate them with food that is bad for them. Namely, a cookie. Turns out, yes, I could placate them.
Calming my sons with cookies before 10 am. Moments like this make me feel like an awesome dad for being a bad dad.
