Someone has inherited my pretty sizable space between her two front teeth (middle school. orthodontic headgear ((shudder))) and uncanny ability to get sick on long weekends.
This time, it's a doozy. Fever, runny nose and, for good measure, conjunctivitis, which makes the whole shebang particularly pitiful.
I defy you to deny a request for a third "puh-pull pah-zah-cool" (purple popsicle) when a two-year-old pleads through teary, snotty, red, swollen eyes.
Lucky for Brandon, he's home all weekend, too, which is awesome and relaxing for him, because he gets peppered with at least one question about pink eye every 15 minutes.
True story: I think he may have just faked an emergency at the hospital to get away from my overbearing momma bear antics. I'm just waiting for the call, "Honey, don't wait up. I'm taking this Sparkler injury into surgery. See you tomorrow night after work."
So that leaves me to ruminate over the plans that were, while I listen to a baby snore three rooms away (finally, after two days of not, she sleeps.). Sadly, she'll miss a parade, because goodness knows, the child loves a fire truck.
Shenanigans postponed in favor of the best we can do: Pink, pale and sad.