Monday, October 25, 2004

Snot Bellied Pig

Ani tells me that she wasn’t sick at all during her first year in this world. I hoped that Ruby had her mother’s genes, because I had pneumonia or some weird fever when I was a wee one. I guess it could have been polio, malaria, or the rare Gene Krupa virus; I never really remember stories about me from when I can’t remember being me. I listen very carefully when my mother tells them to me, because like most people, I’m fascinated with myself, but if her tale doesn’t spark some distant memory or emotion tied to the narrative, my brain becomes a sieve, unable to retain the details of a story that I may have heard five or six times. If I don’t remember it happening to me, then I am subconsciously unable to believe that it really did happen, and it becomes a boring story about a sick kid who got better, rather than an amusing anecdote about the ever-fascinating Greg Burge.

Ruby and Ani are both sick, and I feel that soon I will join their ranks. I feel the pre-fever googles and throat tickles. Poor Ruby and Ani both had fevers of 103 and noses full of snot. Drinking out of a baby bottle is difficult when you can’t breathe out of your nose. I know; I tried it. She would just cry and sneeze and project nasal goop in random directions. While I was cooking dinner the other day, I heard Ani talking to her. I guess what she really said was “You poor snot-nosed kid.” But I heard her say, “You are a snot bellied pig.” I’ve decided that if I ever become a rock star, my first album will proudly bear the title: Snot Bellied Pig and have a close-up picture of me resting my guitar on my gut.

After calls to the doctor and random Internet searches, we decided to let this virus run its course. We cancelled our trip to see the Saints play in Oaktown. I gave the tickets to a friend who is a die-hard Raiders fan (thank goodness-he got to see New Orleans spank his team), and we’ll use the plane tix for a trip to see Leah some weekend. Ruby’s fever is gone, and she’s gradually regaining the power to breathe through her nose. The hardest part of this ordeal has been listening to Ruby’s cry. She has lost some of her voice, so when she cries, rather than bursting eardrums with her normal decibelicious wail, a cute little kitten moan comes out. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. I never thought I’d say this, but Ruby, I want to hear you scream!