Ever since birthing my two beautiful babies, I have found myself constantly teetering on the outside edge of lunacy. Not that this is a bad thing, at the very least it keeps me on my toes. My outlet is this blog, and sometimes I, as some may say, jump the gun. A few posts ago I named, ‘Lars, and the account of the sick day (Part 1)’. Now why I thought I could possibly find time in this viral filled house to write a ‘Part 2’ of this draft is beyond me. Part 1 was wrote in the early morning and barley completed at all.
Maybe it was the sleep deprivation or maybe it was the early delusions of my own sickness kicking in, but now looking back there was no chance of a Part 2 ever being created.
I did however, in my mad attempt to cleanse this house of its germ infested surfaces, come across a letter of sorts, written by the one who calls himself Influenza.
It was a letter addressed to me, and when I began to read it, these are the words it exposed…
Oh dearest Lindsay, you curse my name and say you loath me whenever I enter foot into your dwelling, you say you will wipe me out and conquer my very being…I do not take offense to this, my long time friend. For I know deep down, you do not hate me.
You take comfort in my company, your busy existence gets to come to a quickening halt when I grace you with my presence. I calm your offspring into a mellow siesta for hours even days at a time, and you revel this occasion. Yes I will admit, with me comes the vomiting and irregular bowel movements…that can be less than appealing, but it is the price you pay for the relaxing movie filled days of nothingness you receive in return. Eventually I will take my leave, I very rarely overstay my welcome. And still you detest the mention of my name.
Yet even when you know not of my attendance, I am there. I lurk in the deep crevasse of the couch cushions, the abysmal depths of that place you can never reach between the counter and the stove. I find succour in the remnants of the cleaning toothbrush you forgot to disinfect after scrubbing ‘every’ nook and cranny, trying so desperately to get rid of me. And in all these discreet places I call home, I watch you…I observe your anguish and look for any chance I can, to come to your aid.
All it takes my forlorn acquaintance, is one mischievous hand of that daughter of yours. She is a spirited one, and takes risks the lad usually will not. A spilt second is all that I require, and I can accost the girls fingers which are very much at home when resting in her mouth or nose (the entrance to my rapture). And if for some defective reasoning my efforts through the girl fail, it will only be a matter of time until your son will come home from his malaise ridden nursery school; where offspring of my own variety, run rampant.
Do not be frightened of the words I write, I only yearn to teach you of your true feelings. I understand if you cannot reciprocate at this time, it is a strange and sudden feeling to be thrust into an emotion that one cannot quite grasp. One day my lamb, you will appreciate the respite I give. That day I will be there, waiting for the adoration I so keenly crave.
And in anticipation of that moment, I will watch you from afar…Coming and going when the occurrence presents itself.
As I read the words on this piece of scrape paper, I feel a slight tickling in the back of my throat. All too soon my head becomes fuzzy and I have the immeasurable urge to go and have a nap. My joints become achy and I realize that yes…”It is official, I am going absolutely crazy! The kids, the flu and the cleaning have completely sent me over the edge.”
But somewhere in the back of my mind, I send a certain someone a silent appeal of gratitude, for the next few cycles of dawn through dark; I can endure some relaxing movie filled days of nothingness.