Some People Are Only Alive Because It's Illegal to Kill Them
And my son's "father" is one of them.
I picked Bob up from school today. This was the first time I'd seen or spoken to him since I dropped him off Thursday morning. To say I was "excited" would be like saying Dick Cheney's aim is "a little off." (Okay, sorry--had to throw in the obligatory Cheney joke. Everyone else is doing it...)
I even left work 10 minutes early.
His teacher was still there and she informed me that Bob, who had been waiting for me at the door, had had a fabulous day. I was thrilled. I was not thrilled with the fact my son sounded and looked sick. Very sick.
He's had a cold for the past 2 weeks, and DB emailed me yesterday that he "seemed to have a bit of a cold" and obviously "didn't feel well." I advised him to check his temperature, which I have no idea if the dumbass did or not. So now I'm left wondering how long my kid has been this sick.
Not to mention Lunch Dog--Bob's dog-shaped lunchbox with googly eyes and "real" ears--is gone. In its place is a robot lunchbox. According to Bob, Daddy thought Lunch Dog was "goofy." Did you think it was goofy? "No, but my Daddy did."
When we got home, Bob said hello, put his new lunchbox on the counter, handed me his coat, and went upstairs, where he took off his shoes and curled up on the sofa with a blanket. He felt warm. That, and one of his socks is sporting 2 holes in the top. What the fuck? I asked him what happened to his sock and he said "it was just like that" and then zoned out. I made him some soup--he ate a little, then went back to the couch. I fought with him for a good 20 minutes to try to get some children's Tylenol down him, but he refused. Finally, he asked if I'd lay down with him. I did, and within 5 minutes, he was sound asleep. It was 6:10.
I woke him up around 7:15 to put him to bed. He was completely out of it. I got him to his bedroom, where he flopped face-first onto his bed. I said "hold on, I'll go get you a Pull-Up," and in the time it took me to dash to the bathroom and back, he'd pissed himself. Great. So I got his clothes off of him, pulled the wet comforter and sheet off the bed, and got him into the bathroom. I drew him a bath. Getting him into the tub was a little challenging, as he was too weak to stand on his own, and my hands were too cold for him to let me touch him. Finally I got him into the tub, where he soaked for a bit, then I got him into bed, where he was very happy to go.
Poor baby.
When I was taking off his socks, I noticed the two holes aren't just in the top, they go through and through. There are puncture wounds on his foot, as well as scratches on his heel and ankle.
That's a fucking dog bite.
From, I'm sure, Meal Ticket's fucking dog.
I could kill him.
But I'm trying to maintain. No good will come of me flying off the handle.
I think I'm doing exceptionally well.
But I need a cigarette now so I'm going to cut this short.
More later, as I'll be home tomorrow with a sick Bob.
I picked Bob up from school today. This was the first time I'd seen or spoken to him since I dropped him off Thursday morning. To say I was "excited" would be like saying Dick Cheney's aim is "a little off." (Okay, sorry--had to throw in the obligatory Cheney joke. Everyone else is doing it...)
I even left work 10 minutes early.
His teacher was still there and she informed me that Bob, who had been waiting for me at the door, had had a fabulous day. I was thrilled. I was not thrilled with the fact my son sounded and looked sick. Very sick.
He's had a cold for the past 2 weeks, and DB emailed me yesterday that he "seemed to have a bit of a cold" and obviously "didn't feel well." I advised him to check his temperature, which I have no idea if the dumbass did or not. So now I'm left wondering how long my kid has been this sick.
Not to mention Lunch Dog--Bob's dog-shaped lunchbox with googly eyes and "real" ears--is gone. In its place is a robot lunchbox. According to Bob, Daddy thought Lunch Dog was "goofy." Did you think it was goofy? "No, but my Daddy did."
When we got home, Bob said hello, put his new lunchbox on the counter, handed me his coat, and went upstairs, where he took off his shoes and curled up on the sofa with a blanket. He felt warm. That, and one of his socks is sporting 2 holes in the top. What the fuck? I asked him what happened to his sock and he said "it was just like that" and then zoned out. I made him some soup--he ate a little, then went back to the couch. I fought with him for a good 20 minutes to try to get some children's Tylenol down him, but he refused. Finally, he asked if I'd lay down with him. I did, and within 5 minutes, he was sound asleep. It was 6:10.
I woke him up around 7:15 to put him to bed. He was completely out of it. I got him to his bedroom, where he flopped face-first onto his bed. I said "hold on, I'll go get you a Pull-Up," and in the time it took me to dash to the bathroom and back, he'd pissed himself. Great. So I got his clothes off of him, pulled the wet comforter and sheet off the bed, and got him into the bathroom. I drew him a bath. Getting him into the tub was a little challenging, as he was too weak to stand on his own, and my hands were too cold for him to let me touch him. Finally I got him into the tub, where he soaked for a bit, then I got him into bed, where he was very happy to go.
Poor baby.
When I was taking off his socks, I noticed the two holes aren't just in the top, they go through and through. There are puncture wounds on his foot, as well as scratches on his heel and ankle.
That's a fucking dog bite.
From, I'm sure, Meal Ticket's fucking dog.
I could kill him.
But I'm trying to maintain. No good will come of me flying off the handle.
I think I'm doing exceptionally well.
But I need a cigarette now so I'm going to cut this short.
More later, as I'll be home tomorrow with a sick Bob.
posted by Mitzi Green at 8:27 PM
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