Chooch is sick. He’s been dipping in and out of fever-land since yesterday but he won’t rest. Henry tries reasoning with him by saying things like, "All the other babies SLEEP when they’re sick" but Chooch would rather pace the house in a zombie-gait, whining things like "Uh uh uh uuuuuhhhhhhhhhh" and "Wah wah sniff sniff ARGGGGGH" all while his eyes water and his lips curl up into a snarl. Then he does this really thing where he latches on to our legs and slams himself into our shins until we pick him up and ask him what the fuck he wants a dozen times, fighting to be heard over his death song.
"He’s exactly like you when he’s sick," Henry said angrily. "God forbid he should stay in his crib and rest. No, he has to sit down here and annoy the shit out of us." I’ve never been one to hole up in my room when sick. I might miss something! Staying bed is bor-ing. I’d rather take over the couch and watch home improvement shows on TLC. Carpentry makes me feel better.
Henry just walked past me, holding a sniveling Chooch. "Come on, Little Erin," he said exasperatedly.