The Tyrant has pneumonia. Again. But she’s such a trooper that I didn’t suspect anything till she started vomiting mucus in the middle of the night. Even at the doctor’s office, in between coughing up phlegm and spitting into the trash can, she was climbing up the cabinets and playing THROW TEDDY AT MOMMY’S HEAD. Now me, I was exhausted. I should be the one with pneumonia. Why can’t I have pneumonia?
I might get pneumonia, given my close relationship with Teddy, whom I suspect is a carrier of disease. Teddy recently gained a lot of weight in the form of toilet paper that the girl stuffed through the hole in his tummy, which totally reversed the gastric bypass surgery he had last year. Then she made me sew up the hole, so now I can’t wash Teddy because the toilet paper would get all wet and clumpy and Teddy would feel like he had tumors. Instead, he just has germs. Like, mega-germs. He smells like…well, it’s hard to describe. Maybe morning breath, dirty towels and old milk? With some dog thrown in? And the Tyrant falls asleep each night with Teddy on her face. Maybe she has no sense of smell.
“I think she thinks Teddy is real,” said Hot Firefighter Husband. “Like a real person.”
It’s true. The Diva has her doll Cordurory (not misspelled), who accompanied us everywhere for a very long time. And she had her imaginary friends Emberina and Tree Branch who had to be buckled into car seats. The Pterodactyl has me (ACK).
But Teddy speaks. He has opinions. He dates. For a while he was a woman and engaged to Taylor Swift. He morphs into a weapon and has remarkable aim, and can scream, “SEE YOU LATER, SUCKAS!” out of the car window.
And due to his extreme lifestyle, he probably carries pneumatic germs, which has made the Tyrant sick again. “I hope she feels better!” everyone says. Seriously? She feels fine, and is enjoying her favorite pastime, which is spitting. She LOVES to spit. I’m constantly wiping little balls of gooey grossness out of the various sinks in our house. The other day she was standing outside Starbucks spitting in the parking lot when a man ran over to give her the Heimlech maneuver, yelling, “IS SHE CHOKING? I THINK SHE’S CHOKING!”
“No, no, she’s just spitting,” I said, and he looked at me like We don’t allow folks like you in these parts.
“Well, she’s good at it,” he said, walking away.
“Thank, you, yes,” I said. “We think she has a future.”