|You can only wear white at Wimbledon, but you can blow|
your snot onto the courts. Provided, of course, that it's white.
Or the fact that he was literally blowing his nose on the back of his hand and fingers. Yeah, that. Some clues. (I knew I should have gone to med school. I am all over this.)
Conor has a cold. And he would like someone to take the boogers out of his nose. And how, you may ask, did I sleuth that out?
Maybe it's because HE SCREAMED IT AT ME EVERY MINUTE OF THE DAY.
"CONOR DOESN'T WANT A STUFFY NOSE! CONOR WANTS THE BOOGERS TO COME OUT OF HIS NOSE! TAKE THE BUG OUT! TAKE THE GERM OUT OF MY NOSE! MOM MOM MOM I NEED TO GO TO THE DOCTOR! I NEED MORE MEDICINE."
All. Day. Long.
We sent him to school on Wednesday because he had an early-dismissal. (Every Wednesday is early dismissal.) So it was only a few hours. Plus, it was just a little head cold and not a bad one at that. No fever. Barely a cough. Just some congestion and a really bad attitude. However, we sort of got the impression, shall we say, that school personnel thought he should have been kept at home to recuperate.(Recuperate=torturing his mother rather than his 1:1s and teachers.)
And so, on Thursday, we found ourselves at home with a Conor chock-a-block full of snot.
(Hey, that rhymes. ♫chock-a-block-full-of-snot♫. Nice little ditty.)
During every waking moment, he would look intently in our eyes, and entreat us to TAKE THE BOOGERS OUT OF CONOR'S NOSE! MOM! CONOR DOESN'T WANT TO BE SICK ANYMORE. TAKE THE SNOT OUT!"
|Oh, wait, no, I got it myself.|
At one point, I was so crazed from his yelling at me that I desperately suggested a walk to our local grocery store. I guess I figured that the fresh air and the change of scenery would distract him for a bit.
Well, the only thing worse than having your 14 year-old yelling at you nonstop is to have him yelling at you nonstop IN PUBLIC.
At one point on our walk, Conor yelped, "Conor's going to do ring-around-the-rosie on the street sign that says Indian Lane and THEN Mommy will help Conor get the boogers out." And he did it, like a wacky, weird little voodoo song-and-dance routine. My husband and I just stared. When he finished, I grabbed his hand and we continued walking like nothing ever happened.
♫♫♫♫♫Not happening, not happening, la-di-da-di-da-da.♫♫♫♫
A quick public service announcement: Yelling at your child to STOP YELLING AT ME! is not an approved behavioral intervention for children with autism, Tourettes, and a cold. It does, however, prove I'm not a cyborg.
|But if I WAS a cyborg, I would be a sexy one.|
Because, why not? Plus, I really dig those shoes.
I'm only human. And a sick Conor is an exhausting Conor. (Well, more exhausting than he is on a usual day.) I haven't been this tired since his brother was a newborn. It's probably because I wound up sleeping in his bed for three nights straight. He asked me to, and this way, I can give him the Tylenol Cold + Sinus immediately upon his waking in the middle of the night.
Open mouth. Pop pills. Sip of water. Go back to sleep. (And that was just me.) No, not going back to sleep for a bit? Gonna be awake for a few more hours? Ok. Sigh.
I pulled out all the stops. The Afrin. The Tylenol Cold+Sinus. The Vicks VapoRub. (Yeah, I slathered that everywhere. I practically gave the kid a bath in it.) The warm mist humidifier with the generic VapoSteam liquid stuff in the little cup. I tell you, I had that thing turned so far up that it was practically raining in his bedroom.
The only thing I didn't try was that blue bulb thingy they give you when you have a newborn. You know, to suck the snot out of their nose? (Damn, why didn't I think of that?) Thankfully, the cold didn't last very long, at least not the worst of it. He went to school on Friday and is back on track with his activities. Now we're busy slathering balm on his poor chapped lips and nose. You know how that is, when you blow your nose too much and then the decongestant dries your lips out.
"Mom?" he asked me softly on Thursday night before bed. "Mom? Conor wants the boogers out of my nose."
I know, honey, I replied. I know.
All I know, Conor, is that you can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose but your mom sure as hell ain't picking your nose for you. Sorry, buddy.