Sick, Sick, Sick

The Old Man, Little O, and I just returned from a whirlwind trip to attend my Brooklyn sister-in-law's wedding in scenic Basking Ridge, New Jersey. (Faithful readers may recall my good-natured attempts to derail the traditional trappings of this sister-in-law's bridal shower back in July.) We arrived on Friday and learned that the bride was sick, with a bad cold that had morphed into a sinus infection. What a nightmare. She held up like a trooper during the wedding rehearsal and the three-hour-long rehearsal dinner. Still, we were all a bit worried.

Saturday morning, the day of the big wedding, O. woke up coughing. He was listless and warm to the touch, and more alarmingly he refused all food, including the sugary yogurt and baked-goods-amounting-to-cake on offer at the hotel's continental breakfast. Now O. was sick, a problem in itself, but much more because he was the ring bearer and, as the only kid in the wedding, solely responsible for the cute factor in the day's events.

Luckily, after sacking out for two hours immediately following breakfast, O. affected one of those miraculous transformations that only children seem capable of. He woke up alert, hungry, and ready to romp. The Old Man and I went with him and his grandparents to the quaint restaurant adjoining the rustic inn where we were staying (an establishment that actually sported a sign proclaiming "George Washington slept here.") We all slurped down a bowl of their pumpkin bisque, and O. offered a running commentary on the excellence of the soup and the soup-eating progress of every member of our party. After making the extremely cute and confusing comment that "you can put pumpkin soup in your mouth in surprising ways!" O. slurped another spoonful and exclaimed "It came in my mouth!" After that he'd periodically shout, as one or the other of us downed a spoonful, "It came in your mouth!" He's three, and I knew he meant something along the lines of "Huzzah! You have successfully transported a mouthful of this delightful soup into your mouth!" but I still found it unbearably funny each time he announced the soup's arrival. I managed not to laugh, even though O. repeated this exclamation at least eight times. But it was not easy.

Later, when my Old Man and I were alone, I asked him, "Were you having trouble not laughing when O. kept saying that the soup was 'coming in our mouth'?" My Old Man looked at me with a mix of skepticism and tolerant sympathy. "No, E. He's three. I knew what he meant. It did occur to me that there was a double meaning, but..." This from a man who is a connoisseur of lewd humor and scatological jokes. So I knew then that this little lunch incident was evidence that I'm sick, sicker than average.

The wedding went off without a hitch. Through some combination of rest, endorphins, and pharmaceuticals, the bride was feeling fine. O. garnered much admiration in his little tux, ably bearing the rings and tearing up the dance floor at the reception. My Old Man and I got to do some dancing cheek-to-cheek and pelvis-to-pelvis. O. stayed up past his bedtime, but still we saw little evidence of his earlier ill health.

I, on the other hand, woke up this morning with a sore throat and a headache. Sick.