Mikey is sick again. It’s just a cold, but since he hasn’t been sick in over two months I’m fumbling my way through the virus like an unsteady, newborn colt. How much Pediacare? Where is the thermometer? Starve a cold or feed a cold? I’m rushing to and fro with tissues, decongestants, and sympathy hoping one of the three will do the job.
We got our new furniture today. It looks nice, and when my batteries are charged (literally and figuratively) I’ll take pictures. The delivery people, as usual, were insane. The head-guy looked like a 5′ tall, overweight Tiger Woods and decided to carry in the sofa, by himself, by balancing it on his head. An entire sofa. On his head. To be fugly and stupid must be an incredible cross to bear. Good luck and God speed, 5′ tall-chubby-Tiger. Good luck.
Mikey was especially taken with our new seating arrangement. He was quick to state that it was “Beautiful!” “So comfortable, mama!” and “A great idea!” All of which made me chuckle and think he was just so cute and adorable until I asked him if he would like to relax with me on the new couch, and he turned to me without missing a beat and said, “Mama, it’s called a SOFA.”