I’ve been home for four days with the Hell Flu. I’m not sure if that’s the correct medical term, but it should be.
The good news? At least I didn’t have to go camping with George and Sam. Because if there’s one thing worse than the Hell Flu, it’s camping.
In fact, I hate camping so much, that when George and I married, I made him take an extra vow:
I will never, ever make you go camping.
(He also promised he’d never make me move to Texas, a vow which he promptly broke. I’m holding firm on the camping. The closest I’ve come is a cabin at Disney World’s Fort Wilderness, which George claims didn’t count because it had air conditioning, a television and daily housekeeping service.)
They arrived back home yesterday, tired and filthy, but enthusiastic about their trip. They were full of stories about freezing night temperatures and rustic accommodations that did nothing to change my mind about my camping ban.
Sam had to take two showers and a bath before he managed to scrape off all the layers of dirt he’d accumulated on this adventure. When he was finally clean, he curled up on the couch with me.
ME: I missed you!
SAM: You did?
ME: Yes. Didn’t you miss me?
SAM: Hmmm. Actually, I didn’t really think about you. I was pretty busy.
ME: (sadly) Oh.
SAM: Except for when you called. I thought about you then.
ME: That’s nice. You know you don’t have to be quite so honest all the time. Learning how to lie to me might come in handy for your teenage years.