Completed: 12/09/04
Rating: G
Summary: Emily has the flu and it’s Josh’s job to take care of her.
Author’s Notes: Fifth in the "Emily's World" Series
7:07am...
My daughter looks at me skeptically after my wife leaves for work. “Are you sure you can do this?”
I shrug. “I’m a pretty smart guy.”
“But this is a mommy thing.”
“Well, that’s true. Mommies are very good at this. But I think I can do it for one day, don’t you?”
She doesn’t look convinced. “Did Mommy leave us a list?”
I nod. “On index cards.”
She ponders this for a moment. “Then I think we’ll be ok,” she says reluctantly.
She’s lying in my bed, on my side of the bed, where she’s been since I was kicked out of said bed at 3:27 this morning. “Where should we start?”
“Mommy usually holds me and rubs my back. But if I throw-up again, you have to hold my hair out of my face and put a wet washcloth on my neck.”
“Why a wet washcloth?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s the rules, I guess.”
“Well, I think I can handle that,” I tell her, sitting next to her on the bed. She puts her pillow on my lap and lies on her side facing the television while I rub her back. She’s switching between Sesame Street and C-Span, and she sighs these pathetic little sighs every so often. “What else do we do?” I ask after a few minutes.
“We make fun of republicans.”
“Mommy let’s you make fun of republicans?” Usually Emily and I have to make fun of republicans on the sly.
“Only when I’m sick. To cheer me up.”
“Well,” I say, pointing to the T.V. “That guy talking, he likes guns.”
She shakes her head. “How can someone so old be so dumb?”
“You know what else? He has a toupee.”
She turns her head and looks at me. “What’s a toupee?”
“It’s like a wig, but for men.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Because they’re bald?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Uncle Toby doesn’t wear a toupee.”
I try not to laugh. “I guess he likes being bald.”
“I like to rub his head when he picks me up.” I have to smile because I taught her that. Nobody knows it, but once when she was almost three, he picked her up to hug her and I stood behind him where only she could see me and motioned for her to rub his head. It stuck. You can just about imagine how much Toby loves it.
“Daddy,” she says a few minutes later, when Elmo’s singing… I don't know, something ridiculous.
“Yes?”
She rolls onto her back so she can look at me. “How do you think the bug got in me?”
“What bug?”
“Mommy said I have a bug in my tummy.” She puts her hand on her tummy for full effect.
“Oh, that bug.”
“How did it get there? Did it fly in through my mouth? Cause Saturday at the park, when you were pushing me on the swing, and we were laughing cause that little girl wasn’t going high at all and she was crying like a baby, a bug flew in my mouth and I swallowed it.”
“You did?”
“Yeah,” she says shrugging. “It was already in there, and I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Did it taste like chicken?” I tease.
She looks at me and thinks about it for a minute. “No, it didn’t really taste like anything. It was really super-duper tiny.” She holds her index finger and thumb very close together to show me just how small the bug was.
“I see.”
“Do you think that’s the bug that keeps making me throw-up?”
“Well…” I pretend to ponder this. “I don’t think so. That bug probably died as soon as you ate it.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Ok,” she says, yawning. She falls asleep a few minutes later and I watch her sleep for a half hour, amazed that someone so energetic can be so still. Finally, I sneak out from underneath her and take a shower.
**********
10:02am...
I hear her talking, and I find her in her room sitting on her box springs talking on the phone. I lean against the doorframe and listen to her. “…and I had to stay home from school and I had to sleep in Mommy and Daddy’s bed and Daddy had to sleep in the spare room, and I throwed-up three times… lot’s better… Daddy’s taking care of me…(note that she giggles as she says this)… he’s doing ok so far, he rubbed my back and we made fun of republicans, then I took a nap…”
When she hangs up, she looks at me and smiles. “Hi Daddy.”
“You’re awake! Feeling better?”
“Lots.”
“And who was that?”
“Aunt CJ,” she says.
“Isn’t Aunt CJ at work?”
”Yes, but I’m allowed to call her whenever I want to and her sistance puts her right through. Where’s the rest of my bed?”
“Well,” Ok, I could get into trouble for this. Especially when my wife finds out. “I threw it away.”
Her eyes go wide. “You threw my bed away? Why would you throw my bed away?”
“Because it had vomit on it and you were sick and Mommy was taking care of you, which meant that I was in charge of cleaning up your room, and it smelled gross in here, so I just threw everything away that had vomit on it. I ordered you a new mattress, they’re bringing it tomorrow.”
“That’s a pretty good idea,” she says, nodding.
“I agree.”
Suddenly, a panicked look crosses her face. “Did you throw my blankets away too?”
“Yes, but they weren’t the Barbie ones, they were the pink ones with flowers.”
She lets out a deep breath. “Oh, good.”
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want to accidentally throw Barbie away,” I say sarcastically.
“Be nice, Daddy.”
“Yes, ma’am. What’re you doing in here?”
“I came to call Aunt CJ and get some toys to play with,” she says, showing me a pile of Barbie things. “I’m bringing Ken for you, we can play together.”
“I don’t want to play Barbie’s,” I whine.
“But I’m sick…” she pouts.
“Emily,” I whine some more.
Now her pout gets serious. “You don’t want to play with your baby?”
I hang my head. See how she does it? “Of course I do, sweetheart.”
“Yay!!”
I walk the rest of the way into her room to help her with the mountain of Barbie paraphernalia and accidentally scream, “Son of a…” when I step on something sharp.
“Daddy!” she yells, covering her mouth with her hands.
“Sorry,” I say with a look of fear on my face.
“Daddy!” she yells again.
“I’m sorry. I stepped on…” I look down. “Mr. Potato Head’s moustache. It hurt!”
She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head at me. My God, she looks like her mother. “Hold out your hand.” I shake my head. “Hold it out Daddy.”
“But it was an accident, and I didn’t even finish it.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m pressable.”
“Impressionable, and do you even know what that means?”
“It means that I learn to do things by watching you and if you say bad words, I’ll grow up saying them too. And if you smoke, I’ll grow up smoking,” she says matter-of-factly.
“I don’t smoke!”
“Exactly. You would never smoke because you wouldn’t want me to,” she says, looking at me like I’m the child.
“How’d you get so smart?” I mumble, holding out my hand. She smacks it as hard as she can, which is quite painful.
“Mommy and Aunt CJ.”
I look at her and smile. I think CJ has her brainwashed. Or maybe she has CJ brainwashed, I’m not sure. “Aunt CJ might be overstating her participation just a little.”
“I don’t know what that means,” she says, smiling and tilting her head to one side.
“That means,” I say, picking her up and grabbing her Barbie locker, “that you’re smart because of Mommy and me, you’re just ornery because of Aunt CJ.” She giggles at me and grabs me around the neck as I carry her back into my room.
**********
11:14am...
This is an all time low. Barbie’s wearing a ball gown of some sort driving around in her convertible, Ken’s wearing Hawaiian shorts and a wife beater tank top, with an apron on over it, cooking dinner in the Barbie Kitchen, and I’m about ready to stab myself to death with that Mr. Potato Head moustache I stepped on earlier.
“I hope dinner’s ready Ken, I’m almost home.”
I’m busy setting the miniature kitchen table, which is simply ridiculous! Ken can’t set the table. Basically, I’m just holding him in one hand and setting the table with plates the size of my fingernails with the other hand. I look up from my penance to see my daughter driving around the bedspread saying the occasional ‘zoom.’ “Can he hear her?”
She looks up at me. “Of course he can.”
“But she’s driving down the highway and he’s at home in the kitchen.” This man in the kitchen thing is no doubt something Aunt CJ and Mommy taught her, not that I have a problem with that. I'm just saying, it wasn't my idea.
“She’s calling him on her cell, Daddy,” she says in her ‘duh’ voice.
“Right. Sorry.”
“That’s ok. I’m done with Barbie for now anyway.”
Halleluiah! “Do you want to try some lunch?”
“Hmm…can I have a cookie?” she asks innocently.
“Well, let’s see.” I pull out Donna’s index cards from my pocket. “You may have chicken soup, not chicken noodle soup, whatever that means, sprite with the carbonation stirred out, and dry toast or saltine crackers.”
She looks at me like I just announced liver was on the menu and shakes head back and forth. “I don’t want that stuff.”
“I know, but you’re tummy needs this kind of stuff.”
“But I feel lots and lots better,” she says in a way too cheery voice.
“But you’re not all the way better.”
She looks at me and squints a little. “May I see that, please?”
“Sure,” I tell her, handing her the index card. Emily likes to learn things on her own. She’s not one to take someone’s word for something.
She reads over the index card. “How about tomato soup, real sprite and Ritz Bitz with cheese.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“We can’t even negoshit?”
“Negotiate, and no. Not this time.”
“What? Is that even fair?” She’s clearly flabbergasted; she and I negotiate everything.
“Sorry Peanut, that’s how it is when you’re sick.”
“We have to negotiate a little,” she whines. Emily has problems losing. I’m not exactly sure where she got that trait, but I find it endearing. “Can I have a fudgesicle?”
I see what she’s doing. Fudgesicles aren’t on the list, but popsicles are. She’s brilliant. “No fudge cycles. How about a popsicle?”
“Cherry?”
“Sure.”
“And can I make my own soup?”
“Can I supervise?”
“You may. Will you carry me downstairs?”
“Can I tickle you on the way?”
“You may tickle, but you may not pinch.”
I pretend to think this over. “Deal.” She smiles and we shake on it.
We go downstairs to make chicken soup, which my amazing and all-knowing wife has left out on the cabinet for us. Luckily, she left out two cans, because Emily misses the pot and dumps half of the first can down into the burner of the stove. She’s a tad on the clumsy side.
Once the soup is going, she puts a piece of bread in the toaster and covertly gets the grape jelly out of the fridge. “Nice try, young lady,” I tell her, putting it back.
“A girl has to try,” she says, shrugging.
Just then, the doorbell rings and I go into the living room to answer it. “Emily Joan, something’s here for you.”
“What is it?” she asks coming into the living room. “Wow! Flowers!” she says in an awe voice.
“I wonder who would send you flowers,” I say sarcastically. Like we don’t all know who sent her flowers.
“Let me see the card,” she yelps, taking it out of the dozen pink roses. “Get well soon and we’ll go to the mall to celebrate. Love, Aunt CJ.”
I shake my head and smile. “You’re spoiled.”
“I know,” she says with her most innocent voice.
**********
1:27pm...
“You’re cheating.”
“I’m not cheating.”
“Yes, you are. You’re not allowed to cheat. There’s no cheating.”
“I’m not cheating.”
“Daddy, you’re not allowed to use words that I’ve never heard. You know the rules.”
“You’ve never heard of fermata?”
“No.”
“It’s a musical term.”
“Daddy…”
"Fine.”
“You get negative 10 points for that.”
“What?”
“I warned you last time.”
“You’re just like your mother.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
**********
3:22pm...
Emily and I are drawing on her special drawing paper that my mom sent her. Emily loves art. And I’m just gonna go ahead and say this to you, because there’s no way I can ever say it out loud. My daughter is brilliant and talented in many, many ways. Art is not one of those ways. “What’s that?”
“Me and Mommy and you.”
I look at it, then turn my head sideways and look at it again. Then I squint and I can almost make it out. “Oh. You’re doing a very good job.”
“Thank you. What are you drawing?” I look down. I’m clearly drawing a swing set next to a tree. Hello?
“A swing set and a tree.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Oh, well…it’s good.” She doesn't sound too convincing.
“Thanks,” I mumble
“When did you know you loved Mommy?” she asks a few minutes later, while she’s magneting both of our pictures to the fridge.
“Well, that’s kind of hard to say.”
She turns around and looks at me. “Why?”
“I think I was infatuated with her first.”
“What does infatated mean?” she asks, walking back to the table and crawling up into my lap.
“Infatuated. It means… well, I couldn’t quite figure your mommy out. She was different and funny and smart and beautiful and spunky, kind of like you, and I just wanted to be around her all the time.”
“Because you loved her?”
“First I liked her. Then I loved her.”
When I say this, her bottom lip starts quivering. Uh oh. What did I do? “Did you like me first, and then love me?” she asks, tears welling up in her eyes.
“No,” I say, shaking my head back and forth and squeezing her a little tighter. “You I loved from the very beginning.”
“Really?” she asks in a quiet voice, wavering voice.
I pull her close and she lays her head on my chest. “Yeah. Mommy made me a special dinner to surprise me, with candles and everything. And I was pouring wine and she said she just wanted water. When I asked her why she didn’t want wine, she just looked at me and smiled, because when you’re having a baby, you can’t drink wine. I stood there for a minute and just looked at her with a big goofy smile on my face and then I put the wine bottle down and got on my knees in front of her and held my ear up to her tummy.”
She sits up and smiles at me. “Could you hear me in there?”
“No. But then I whispered into her belly and told you our very first secret.”
“What was it?”
“That we were going to be best friends.”
She lays her head back against my chest and we just sit there for a minute. “I’m glad you stayed home with me today, Daddy.”
“Me too.”
**********
4:38pm
I've apparently caught my daughter's flu, because I’m puking my guts out in the bathroom when I hear the door open and then the water turn on. A minute later, Emily sits on the bathtub ledge and puts a cool wet washcloth on my neck. What she didn’t do was ring it out, so there’s water dripping down my back, around my neck and down my chest, and all over the floor beneath me.
“Are you ok, Daddy?” she whispers.
“I’m not feeling too well, Em,” I manage to groan out.
She gets up and fills a glass with water, then comes back and sits down. “Here. Don’t swallow it, just swish it around and spit it out.”
I look at her and then do as she says. “How do you know this stuff?”
She smiles at me and rubs my back. “Mommy.”
Even in my near-death state, I can’t help but smile at my little five year-old grown-up. “What do I do now?”
“Are you done throwing-up?”
“Yeah, for now.”
She gets up and pulls on my hand to help me stand up. I weigh about three times what she does, so instead of pulling me up, she falls into me and we both laugh. Finally, we manage to get up and she goes to the sink and refills the glass of water. “Swish again. Your breath stinks.”
Once I’m fully swished, she holds my hand and takes me into my bedroom and I lay down. “But now I’m gonna be bored,” I whine.
“Do you want me to read to you?”
“Yes,” I say in a pathetic, I need someone to take care of me voice.
“What do you want to hear?”
“If You Give A Moose A Muffin.” She smiles at me and goes into her bedroom. When she comes back, she has three books with her.
She climbs up on the bed with me, sits leaned up against the headboard, and pats her legs. I put my pillow on her lap and lay on my side. She rubs my forehead and hair and starts reading to me. “If you give a moose a muffin, he’ll want some jam to go with it…”