If I were the superstitious type, I'd be wondering if my daughter was ever meant to have a birthday party.
Take for example, last year's "party"; interrupted about 30 minutes into it by Elise's doc telling us to take her to the hospital, she's just been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. Pretty sucktacular.
So this year, as we were away for the actual day of birth, we decided to throw Elise a party for the weekend after we got home. It was all planned; people invited, food bought, decorations thought of... blah, blah, blah.
Then on Wednesday, I got sick. Not just sick, but dear-Lord-of-all-things-good-and-right-everything's-going-dark-no-wait-I-see-some-light-and-I'm-heading-towards-it-sick. But it's okay, I still have my main man Fred to help get things together for the party.
Then on Thursday, Fred starts heading towards the light. The guy who has been sick a total of 3 times in 11 years, who has managed to dodge all sorts of crud that I have incubated including about three rounds of strep throat, Mr. I-doan-need-no-stinkin'-Advil. He's got it too.
At this point, we start contemplating that the party needs to be cancelled, or at the very least, moved to the next weekend. Mother Nature decides to get in on the act, and it's predicted that there's an 80% chance of rain on Saturday. In Texas. In September. My friends, that just doesn't happen here unless it's biblical times and God has just had a little heart-to-heart with a guy named Noah.
And just in case we get any ideas about going forward with the party, Elise then gets sick on Saturday morning, and it rains here like it has never rained before. Talk about twisting the knife.
Do I sounds bitter? Probably... probably. Chalk it up to frustration, I guess. I do have one rather funny tale from when I went to the doctor to see if my crud had a name (and hopefully not one that sounded like Swine Flu).
Fred made the appointment for me, and when the receptionist asked why I needed to be seen, he replied, "she's sick". Straight and to the point, that's my Fred.
So somehow I slipped past all the superb screening, and was sitting in the room waiting to be seen, sans mask. The doc walks in, notes my temperature on the chart (101.6), and asked me if I had been coughing. When I said yes you would have thought I told him I was there to pluck his eyeballs out with my thumbnails.
He jumped up, tore open the door and yelled, "nobody told meeeeeeeeeee", as he ran down the hall. I sat there, feeling very much like a leper.
He returned, from what I am presuming was a Lysol-shower, about 10 minutes later wearing a mask and with one for me. It turns out that I didn't have the flu, just one of the second-rate, run-of-the-mill viruses that doesn't get any press. Poor, un-named virus.
Have we always been so crazy when it comes to germs, or its it just lately that people are going off the deep end? I remember when I was younger, you got the flu, you threw up a little, and drank some ginger ale. At some point, you manage pass it onto your friends and family who threw up and drank ginger ale. Nobody went to the doctor, let alone the press.
Now, I must admit, I'm not so relaxed when it comes to sick people being around Elise, but unfortunately, diabetes makes things a little trickier. But shouldn't we relatively healthy people be a little less freaked out?
Okay, I think I'm done grumbling for now. Keeping my fingers crossed for Saturday. Time for Elise to have a birthday party, even if it is one year and three weeks overdue.
1 week ago