Last night I woke up with a sore throat, a pounding headache and that crunchy fluid sound of a coming mucus blitzkrieg pulsing in my ears.
I stumbled into the bathroom to blindly snort some Zicam and got back in bed, wishing that I could just cut my head off at the shoulders, and then weirdly found some relief by visualizing this -- no head, no throat, just whack off the source of all the misery and...ahh. That's nice.
I fell asleep and dreamt that I was reviewing Mamapop posts on my laptop -- panicked because Catherine's Friday Eye Candy featured full frontal William Shatner nudity and Black Hockey Jesus' photo essay about stuffed animals had somehow attracted an army of white supremacists in the comment section. I then decided I needed to drive somewhere else to deal with it, but when I went to get the baby's carseat I found it next to a conference table where a very large business meeting was underway, and a woman seated nearby was using it to hold her wallet and car keys. She gave me a dirty look when I handed them back to her and tried to explain. "This is my carseat," I said dumbly, "For my baby." She rolled her eyes at me and sighed. "Adorable," she snapped.
I had just started to notice that the dream was actually taking place in our old condo building in the city when my eyes suddenly opened and I realized that Noah was standing next to the bed, his eyes boring into mine with one of those I Will Wake You Up With Only The Burning Force Of My Children Of The Corn Stares.
"Mama, I sick." he said.
And I looked at him and said, "I'm sorry, baby. Do you need your head cut off too?"