You know those tests they make you take in high school? The ones that are 8 mazillion pages long and when you finish it you get a little slip of paper that says
according to your answers you are best suited to be
a truck driver?
My results pointed towards a career in television journalism. It's scary how accurate those things are (ahem). Seriously, it still makes Andy sick to his stomach when we talk about how nervous I was in our high school speech class. It was awful. Anytime I had to give a speech my right hand would shake so violently I would burn 300 calories. Seriously. And then there was the time I was trying to say the word "cockroaches" (which should tell you something - what in the world was I talking about?) and it came out "cockrotches". Which led me to think of crotches, which shot me straight into a fit of giggles so bad I had to leave the room. In the middle of my speech.
Which was convenient because I needed to head to the water fountain anyway.
You know, to rehydrate from the workout my right extremity had been doing.
You're wondering why Andy was traumatized by this? Because love his heart, he had to sit through all of it. Thankfully during our four years of high school together, we only had one speech class. If he'd witnessed much more of that there may not be a gaggle to speak of...........................
Right around Thanksgiving the gaggle and I all got colds. (I'd like to come up with a better transition, but I was up late making Christmas cookies last night and I got nothin'. Stay with me, people.) I actually had been putting up quite a fight and then my friend Emily kissed me square on the lips. Which was totally precious, except for the swath of snot that it came with.
The worst part of the infirmity for me was a nagging, dry cough that got really bad every evening as I tried to lie down to sleep.
Nothing says romance like a woman who's hacking her lungs out.
Anyhoo, during the day, I really didn't have too much trouble. Except when I talked too much, or tried to read to the girls.
I'm not prone to gab for long stretches during the day. I don't have time to be on the phone. The children might
chew through their straps get into trouble. Most of my talking comes in short spurts with gems like
Keep your pants on!
Get off the table!
Stop poking her in the eye.
Stop poking her in the other eye.
Stay out of the silverware drawer.
You'd better not be crying over something little!
For the love, KEEP YOUR PANTS ON!
So about a week into this cold I was sitting on the floor with all three ladies on my lap reading before nap time. Things were fine all the way through Moo, Baa, LaLaLa, but I knew when I started into Goodnight Moon we might be headed for trouble.
By the time the old lady started whispering
hush
the little tickle in the back of my throat turned into a full on hacking episode.
It was bad.
I shoved all three little ladies onto the floor, ripped my jacket off and then it got ugly.
The coughing turned into choking. On what I have no idea. But I made my way into the kitchen heaving and gasping for air, all the while trying to comfort Anna and Lainey who are now whimpering because clearly Mama
was going to choke to death. On air.
Or lack thereof.
But no words were coming, just the choking, gasping, spitting and flashbacks of pregnancy. Which aren't pleasant. For me, or anyone who knows me.
Finally, I started to breathe somewhat normally and although I couldn't talk yet, I'd come back from the point where I was picturing my tombstone covered with the words
Here Lies Jessica Green
She died by asphyxiating
On nothing
Bless her Heart
Through my watery eyes I saw a teary Lainey hugging Anna, who was sobbing. Then I spun around to check on Em, whom I hadn't noticed during the whole debacle.
There she was standing on her tiptoes, peering into the trashcan, checking out what I had just spit up.
All the while chewing on her snack. That she had gotten on her own.
While I was incapacitated.
Forget the high school proficiency test. I can tell you right now, Lainey's going to be a therapist, Anna's got it made in theater and Emily will be a fantastic nurse.
Or a porta-potty servicer.
Either way, we'll be
so proud.
