When Chooch woke me up yesterday morning at 4:00am, wanting to talk about his desire to be an octopus standing in a crowd, I wondered if maybe if he was getting sick. When he expressed concern that his entire body felt like it was covered in tattoos, I was like, “OK, he’s sick.” I mean, saying weird shit isn’t at all unusual for him, but the sad, droopy eyes accompanying his random statements weren’t generally a part of his delivery.
“Do you want some medicine?” I asked him, fumbling for my big green glasses.
“Yeah, if it tastes good,” he said with attitude.
Later in the afternoon, he established an “Are You OK?” protest. I guess constantly asking him if he was OK every time he even half-coughed had gotten under his achy skin.
“What do you think?” he snarled after I felt his forehead for the 87th time (Sidney Crosby, holla). “No, I’m not OK! I’m sick.”
He’s still pretty delirious (and bitchy) today. We were sitting together on the couch when he said, in a very disgusted tone, “I haven’t watched Diary of a Wimpy Kid in years because daddy will never get off his ass and find it.” And then when I continued to just sit there–god forbid–he yelled, “Well? Go find it!”
Oh, I found it. It’s at that orphanage outside of the city. Here, allow me to DROP YOU OFF THERE.
After watching his stupid movie, down to the very last second of credits, Chooch turned his drowsy attention to “Suite Life,” which he has seen a million times. He asked in a sick drawl, “What, are they supposed to be twins or something?”
“Uh, they’re not supposed to be twins. They are twins,” I answered, slightly alarmed that whatever illness he has had begun eating his brain.
“Oh. And do they know this?”
Oh my god, my kid is turning stupid.