I had just dispatched Russ to attend the surprise Hooter’s birthday party of our very own World of Wheatster/Fittwarehouse….Mark. The boys had been fed, bathed and pj’d, so all I had to do was hang out with them and wait patiently for him to come home with a stolen box of chicken wings.
Drew and I had both woken up with cold-ick-symptoms and the only thing I felt like doing was trying to unclog my sinuses. Which makes sense. I mean we had been well a whole three days since we finished the antibiotics from last week. Russ said he wouldn’t stay out late and the party was at our ‘hood clubhouse, so I knew he would be close by if I needed him. Which I did.
About 52 minutes in, Drew’s wheezing shifted into high gear and to make a long story even more boring, we ended up (back) at the urgent care center again for the second time in a week.
Of course it was almost closing time so they didn’t actually treat us with a breathing treatment, but rather shoved us back out the door with three prescriptions and a diagnosis of “maybe bronchial pneumonia.”
I was a hospital medical coder for a couple of years, and I don’t remember the Maybe Code Book.
So we are home. Breathing treatments every four hours. Wanna know how long it takes to give a breathing treatment?
Exactly three renditions of Santa Claus is Coming to Town. As sung by Russ and Ryan with made up words for every verse.
One alligator roll.
Two attempted bear hugs in which the squirmy kid always manages to get loose.
Several baby fingers to the right eye socket. Then the left.
One towel to wipe of the combined sweat from 10 minutes of screaming and hair pulling.