Play-Doh Therapy

RSV (Respiratory Syncytial Virus) is the gift that keeps on giving, apparently. My boys contracted it several weeks ago which is old news…except it’s the fun kind of virus where just when you think it’s gone, it morphs into something else.

It’s been a vicious cycle of grossness ’round these parts, which is why I rocked my Warby Parker glasses recently.

This is a conversation I had with my eye doctor during my emergency appointment, compliments of “broken eyeballs” (the words I actually used to describe the reason for my visit…because I’m 12):

Doctor: Wow, yea. Your eyes are super red.
Me: (Drr. That’s why I’m here.)
Doctor: Have your kids been sick recently, by any chance? Like with a cold virus?
Me: Always.
Doctor: Well, lucky you. That’s what’s in your eyeballs. A virus. Probably from a cold.

A virus in my eyeballs. I didn’t even know that was a thing.

Sweet boys and their Mother’s Day present of burny, painful, light-sensitivity.

In other news, I’m never making fun of transition lenses again. Yes, they’re super awkward in their in-between indoor/outdoor lighting stage, but they’re much less awkward than sunglasses on top of glasses.

Play-Doh

It is no secret that I love a good costume. Like, way before mustaches were a “thing” I found this to be highly entertaining on my wedding day.

(And no I wasn’t naked. Yet.)

We’re off topic.

A few weeks ago, Beckett and I were playing with Play-Doh.

We often make cars or bugs or ice cream cones.

But we switched it up that day and made this:

Which was hysterical to the bigger dude and myself.

Especially because this.

(What did we even do before he came around? He’s by far Beckett and my favorite play thing.)

Play-Doh facial hair, especially on someone who can’t fight back, is the unsung hero of playtime activities.

So, really, it’s no wonder I walked in the living room to find this a few days later:

“Yook, mommy! I drew mustacheth and eyebrowth!”

I gotta hand it to the kid – those are excellent eyebrows. And his mustache? Straight out of a Parisian romance novel.

Which leads me into the letter I’ve been meaning to write the little one.

My dear sweet Hutton,

I’ll pay any and all therapy bills. I’m sorry. And I love you.

Love,

Mommy