Dudes, what's up? Can you believe that Mommy is still sick! Man, Bronchitis is strong. I had a battle with a cough thing about 2 weeks ago and the doctor thinks that when Mommy started fighting this guy, he morphed into Bronchitis. I don't know if he got a bunch of his cough buddies to pile on, a la combiner transformers, or if it was like this new strain of the Phoenix that just took out Professor X (Wait, am I supposed to say "Spoiler" before or after I spoil it?); but man, he is pretty cool. I mean, bad. Like bad cool. Not that I want Mommy to be sick or anything, but villains do have the cooler powers and typically the cooler names. Stilt-Man, aside.
Needless to say, this battle is taking all her reserves. And I do mean all. This is hard to watch; she kinda slugs around the house and tries to do stuff, like get us dressed and whatever, but usually she makes it about half way. Like how Super Baby only had on pants and no shirt for most of the day. Or the outfit of shirt, one sock, and a Tinkerbell dress that Super Preschooler was sporting yesterday. Well, to be fair, I saw him in that one 3 weeks ago and Bronc hadn't made his appearance yet. (Come on, it is too a cooler name!) Now, I try to make it easy on her and go au naturel, but she seems to have issues with that. So, we compromised on a diaper and a crown. How was I supposed to know that today the landlord was gonna stop by to check out the deck work? Like he has never seen a Superhero in a diaper before; whatever, Ka-Zar rocks that look 24/7. She didn't have to hide me in the bedroom while he was here like I was some British dude's crazy first wife. What? Like I can't be literary. Readers, I have loads of interests; Awkward Dad is my father, you know. Wrestling pillows and fighting with sticks happen to be at the top, but I can still enjoy a seminal work of Gothic proto-feminism.
So, she is in such a bad way. Like letting Dad feed us Whoopie Pies for breakfast. Like letting us watch Barney. Like just watching us flood the bathroom with her head in her hands. No yelling, not that she can. But she can usually muster up an effort; you know, a kinda barky thing that doesn't really scare but lets you know that she still thinks she is in charge. It is totally sad to see her just give up. And I am not one to let my Mommy be sad.
So, here is my master plan; I am going at Bronchitis where he lives. I have been cuddling up to her and being all huggy and stuff. She loves it, so that is a nice side-effect. But my real plan is to get a good look at Bronchitis in action, figure out his weakness, and take him down. I am like a Ninja, Bronc, you won't know what hit you, when I decide to finally hit you. Don't be fooled, you are going down. And no power ballad Blaze of Glory for you, my friend. It is gonna be with a tiny whimper, because no one makes my Mommy think she isn't in charge. Except me.
Thanks, Super Toddler. Maybe you could come back next week to talk about postmodern intertextuality in the works of William S. Burroughs or hitting things with sticks. Your call.
Nothing says business like a plastic fireman hat and a pretend sword; Super Toddler doesn't play around. OK, wait, that is all he does. But he does it cool. Like good cool.