chicken pops

 

Life is hard, and then you get attacked by hundreds of little itchy blisters -- 264 to be exact -- and you can't get on the plane.

Which is of course, what happened to us two weeks ago. Actually, the chicken pox happened to us two weeks ago. I think it was two weeks ago. It was such a long, hard time that it could have been a year ago. It certainly felt like it lasted a year, and I wasn't the one with the pops! The day after the belle famille left for France, my King of Everything was invaded by hostile forces. They were deceptive, starting off innocuously enough, just a few on his shoulders. No problem, I thought, we can have this licked and still get on the plane to Washington on the 15th. But by the third day, I had to admit defeat and call in the heavy artillery. Camomile lotion everywhere. The doctor assured us that, while this was not a mild case of chicken pox, it was not cause for alarm. We cancelled our flight and booked a new one, sent a flurry of official looking doctor's notes to the airlines and kept our fingers crossed.

What I can't wrap my head around, even now, is the mind dulling boredom of being stuck inside the house with an active boy for ten days. Ten days.

I never want to be inside again.