by Ashley Weeks Cart
It’s fortunate that you are reading rather than hearing this post. For if I were to be speaking these words aloud, a raspy, weak, mucus-laden squeak would be the vehicle of delivery. Kimmy called me today, and when I answered the phone with a barely audible rasp, she burst out laughing.
WOW! You really are really sick.
Why, yes, yes I am. I’m just grateful that the worst part of this didn’t hit until I was already in the comfort of my own home, and not mid-flight with an angry toddler.
You see, Friday night I spent with a large group of Miami-dwelling Ephs. As is my nature, I talked, frequently and with much gusto. Here I am in the middle of entertaining James and assorted Williams company, with Mojito numero uno in hand.
When I awoke on Saturday morning with the beginnings of Phone Sex Operator Voice and a slamming headache, I chalked it up to three-too-many mojitos and the late night salsa dancing.
I spent the afternoon napping, and then attended another (highly social) dinner. By evening’s close, my larynx had reached its breaking point. But again, I assumed the sore throat and overwhelming exhaustion was a result of all the meetings and events and my inability to shut my damn mouth.
I felt shitty on the plane, but fortunately, Addison, in typical Addison fashion, curled up in her seat and passed out almost immediately, so James and I were able to jointly share Courtland-wrangling responsibilities. The flight looked a little something like this:
Relatively speaking, we made it home smoothly and quickly.
We pulled into the driveway and James and I leapt out to greet our ebullient, wriggly pups. When I turned to then pull Sunny out of her car seat, I was met with the emotional display of an adolescent female. Sunny sat, weeping dramatically into her hands, blubbering, “I don’t like when vacation is over. I am so sad that we’re in Vermont. I miss Florida. This is haaaaaaard.”
Aaaaand, hello Ashley at thirteen weeping about the onslaught of time! Little did you know you’d one day birth karma.
It took us close to fifteen minutes to ease Sunny’s distress. She was consumed with that empty, lonely feeling one often has coming down from a joyous, fun experience. While ridiculous in some respects, it was simultaneously the most mature display of emotions I’ve ever seen from my daughter.
Queue Ashly at nearly-thirty weeping about the onslaught of time.
We then discovered a rotting mouse in our kitchen cabinet’s mouse trap and a rotting mole in our basement’s. When James headed to the grocery store, the Volvo died in the parking lot and then Courtland spent most of the night screaming (her way of displaying her dismay at vacation’s end and thus no longer sharing a bedroom with her sister). By the time I awoke this morning, I could barely eek out a whisper of discomfort to convey the state of my entire body.
So in bed I stay. Hoping that a day in bed will make the bad man go away. Oh please MAKE THE BAD MAN GO AWAY! Welcome home to me!