I’m on day nine of The Nasty Cold. All last week I bravely soldiered on, taking teaching breaks here and there to honk into a Kleenex.

“Excuse me,” I’d apologize to my sophomores. “I’ll be right back with you to discuss that scintillating poem.”

And then, each night, I’d go home and think about calling in a sub for the following day; and then, each night, I wouldn’t do it.

I’ll rest up on the weekend, I thought.

But no. The weekend was spent zooming around the city at a breakneck pace in a vain attempt to get into the holiday spirit and also having this conversation with Shef:

“Please don’t hit Mommy. It’s not nice and it hurts Mommy.” The smirk is lingering on his face.
“Hit people,” Shef says.
“No, we don’t hit people.”
“Hit friends,” he says.
“No. If we hit our friends, it makes them very sad.”
“Hit babies,” he offers.
“No. That would be very, very sad.”

And what the hell? Is my child pathologic or what?!

Then later, after he’s gone ahead and tested the theory about hitting people, and I’ve put him back in time-out nine million times per Super Nanny’s suggestion (he won’t sit):

“Do you know what you’re in time out for?”
“FIVE!”

Yes. So, I decided I needed a day on the couch alone with my snot. I suppose a marathon of Making the Band would be too much to ask?