Oh, Cabin Fever. You are a clingy beast. You already destroyed my January with all the various illnesses around here. You even went so far as to go after my birthday. Now I tell you this: YOU WILL NOT HAVE MY FEBRUARY!
Cabin Fever, you might as well be a snake oil salesmen with all of your false claims of coziness and rest. But I, stupidly, somehow still get excited about your arrival. I think how of much fun it’s going to be to get good and snowed in. I start making my guest list of other potential visitors during your stay: Movie Marathon, Sweatpants City, Book Bonanza, Cooking Cacophony and my favorite, Daytime Drunkenness.
But I can’t invite that crowd anymore. Listen, hunkering down in the house may be fun when you don’t have small kids. But you, Cabin Fever, are not so charming when there are munchkins about. I cannot watch horrible, junk-food style TV because the television automatically defaults to the Disney Channel when there is snow on the ground. I cannot have a fire in the fireplace unless I want to spend all afternoon playing goalie in front of the flames (babies think fire is very, very interesting). I cannot even indulge in reading gluttony because I have to ensure that your nastier cousin, Certain Death, doesn’t try to entice my toddler to go ahead and taste test the magnetic poop from Barbie’s dog.
We’ve tried to get along with you, Cabin Fever. We’ve played in the snow but it’s too cold to stay out too long this time. When the six-year wants to ditch the sled after 40 minutes so she can come in and get warm, you’ve overshot the mark. We done the “let the pot simmer on the stove all day” cooking. We’ve done the baking marathons, the Family Movie Nights, the build-a-fort-in-the-living-room. We’ve been doing it for a month. We’re sick of it. And we’re really, really sick of each other.
So, Cabin Fever, it’s time for you to go. If the door hits you in the ass on the way out, all the better. Because if you don’t leave soon I may be forced to clean something and for that, I can never forgive you.