On top of a poo-on-a-stick week, we won the flu lottery! And by we, I mean Little Thing. Poor sweet Little Thing is puny. I hate it. Here’s a synopsis (in haiku fashion nonetheless) of today’s events.
The thermometer
beeps at one hundred and two.
No wonder she’s chilled.
Climbing into bed
with me, she proclaims, “I’m fine!”
“Yeah right, tiny one.”
A petite furnace
ignites her forehead and limbs,
aflame with fever.
Tissues and TV
flushed cheeks and pillow snuggles
beneath her blanket.
Her granny arrives
to take care of her and bring
her to the doctor.
A text says: it’s flu.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Poor sick Little Thing.
To Tamiflu or
not to Tamiflu–that
is the question now.
Considering she
gags on liquid Tylenol
we will pass. No thanks.
Time to stock up on
Sprite, pain reliever tablets,
and so much Lysol.
Off topic: I did have a bright spot today. A student gifted me a temporary tattoo of a llama blowing a bubble. He might have pilfered it from his little sister’s Valentine’s Day gift box, but whatevs. It’s adorable, and it’s lifted my spirits every time I’ve looked at it today.
