Well, the Oscar nominations were announced last night and I am disappointed to say that The Boy's performance last year in "I think I have the Flu, or at Least a Cold" did not get a nod.
You know the one I'm talking about. It's the one where The Boy woke up in mid-April, appeared to have rubbed some of my very expensive blush around his eyes and adopted a manner of speaking that sounded much like Clint Eastwood the time he told that punk to make his day, only this time Clint had clearly been smoking about ten packs a day. He punctuated his performance by coughing dramatically for emphasis, like this:
Boy: "Mom. *cough* I'm not *cough* feeling *cough, cough* too good.
Me: "Well, you don't have a fever, you don't sound congested, and you were up until midnight last night playing video games in your room without permission."
Boy: "But *cough* I couldn't *cough* sleep because *cough* I was *cough* COUGHING."
Me: "By the way, you lose your DS for a week."
Boy: *cough*
So, imagine my surprise when I found out this morning that he was not nominated along side of whoever was nominated for their performance in those movies that I have yet to find time to go see and probably never will.
Our life with The Boy has included many such performances, not all of which are related to fictional illness. Many of them had to do with "forgetting" to do his homework and our magical cats who apparently had the ability to express themselves in the form of primitive wall-drawings. For a while there, I began using the "one out of every six words" method to decipher exactly what The Boy was trying to tell me. This method was based on the assumption that only one out of every six words that came out of The Boy's mouth were true. It's kind of like one of those codes where you look at a paragraph and then you write down every sixth letter on a piece of paper and it forms a secret message except that there's no telling which of the six words is the true one. For example, at around the age of six, The Boy said to me, "Mom, the cat took my colors and drew a picture of some dinosaurs on my wall." After visiting the scene of the feline crime spree and applying the 'one out of every six words" rule, I was able to decode the sentence into the following (true words will be in all caps). "MOM, I stole your sharpie and DREW some random scribbles on my WALL and also I really love DINOSAURS."
Needless to say, it got to the point where I generally disregarded everything The Boy said as being a blatant lie. "I don't have any homework today." could be translated into "I haven't turned in my HOMEWORK for at least five weeks." I tried many times to tell him the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf but after each recitation of the story wildlife sightings in our backyard increased ten-fold and according to The Boy the animals were responsible for his missing homework.
In the past two years, The Boy has finally turned a corner where I can believe most of what he says, except when it comes to "not feeling well" which is generally still code for "I stayed up in my room with a flashlight and a pile of Lego pieces in my bed and didn't fall asleep until two in the morning." So, on Monday morning, when it appeared that The Boy had rubbed some of my very expensive dark eye shadow around his eyes (maybe one day he'll win the Oscar for makeup) and was speaking with an extremely raspy, Rod Stewart-esqe voice, I prepared myself for the inevitable. Knowing that if I took him to school I was likely to receive a phone call from the school nurse within twenty minutes of arriving at home, I decided to let him stay home and rest. He of course experienced a miraculous recovery at around 3:15 p.m. on Monday, right about the time that his sister came home. When Tuesday morning rolled around and the pathetic coughing began anew, I told him that he would be going to school because he didn't have a fever and he seemed fine the night before, despite the fact that his speaking voice indicated that his sinuses were mere moments from exploding. I knew better, you see.
Or, I thought I did. I arrived at work (a forty-five minute drive away from school) and settled in to plow through my day. About a half an hour later, I received an extremely accusatory phone call from the school nurse, stating that The Boy said he had strep throat and that I forgot to give him his medicine and he was in the office and he really didn't look well and he had a slight fever and that I should come get him. No, I said, he doesn't have strep throat. Yes, I said, I did forget to give him Advil this morning for his sinus headache. NO, I said, HE DOES NOT HAVE STREP THROAT. Having thus received my nomination for Mom of the Year, I sheepishly retrieved The Boy from school and planted him on the couch with an assortment of broth-intensive foods and the remote control. Despite the nurse's insistence that he really was sick, I still had my doubts, but those were dashed when I found him fast asleep on the couch during an episode of a dinosaur show on National Geographic with nary an electronic device or Lego within reach.
So, I guess I've learned my lesson. Perhaps The Boy can be trusted again. He's still at home, recovering from what I think is a head cold but what he insists is either the flu or Ebola. Every time I ask him how he is doing he coughs for emphasis. I think I'll let him stay home tomorrow, too.
