No hole too big or too small to emit stuff

The twins both have florid patches of weeping pox all over their perfect little bodies.  Twin1 was in our bed crying and and scratching all night.  The husband slept in twin1's bunk to tend to the equally itchy twin2.  Twin1 insisted on cuddling up close to me which meant poking and jabbing my bad arm to the state where it feels like a shredded flutter of palid, useless flesh held together by its hyper sensitive coating.

My parents have taken them out for a walk, tucked up in their pushchair so I can get some work done.  If my parents weren't a) here and b) as generous as they are, I'm sure my fingernails would be the only things keeping me attached to the crumbling cliff by now.  Since my return from the UK 3 weeks ago the children have lost liquid from orifices and pores in a steady stream of matter not suitable for print.  Their absence from kindy and the mess this stream produces would have sent me over the edge but ma and pa have hosted sleepovers, provided countless park and beach trips for the children and helped keep my house in some kind of order.  Grateful isn't the word.

This weekend lad turns 5.  I had a quick scan down the invitees to see who I need to call and tell of the girls' pox but all the children coming either have chicken pox at the moment or are recovering from it.  Perfect.  Let the games commence.

I wonder whether the PM is a tomato sauce or a brown sauce kind of chap?

The Prime Minister is going to be here today.  I could go down and watch him load pasta and tomatoes into a trolley at The Good Food Trading Co but I won't.  If I got the opportunity to talk to him I'd probably cry as I'm feeling quite weepy today.  Coupled with the lake of green snot my head is producing and ramming down my nostrils I'm not sure I'm in the mood to make much small talk and I'd probably make everything about me.  "Hi John Key, how are you?  My son has chicken pox, my twins are crying incessantly and want my attention above all things, my limbs are aching and I can't sleep at night because I can't breathe properly through my bunged up nose and when I do drift off my troubled dreams are pierced by the wailing of twin1 or requests from the lad to change yet more vomit soaked sheets."

Yes, I'm sure the Prime Minister would be fascinated to hear of the minutiae of my life while he ponders the reconstruction of Christchurch and the strength of the New Zealand dollar but I'll spare him the worry and stay at home.

paint a red cross on the door

Yesterday I arrived at kindy to see stuck to the door "friendly notice:  head lice are doing the rounds".  Today the same notice is there with the words head lice rubbed out and replaced with chicken pox.  I admire the scribe of this missive and their perky, upbeat attitude but I am struggling to feel the same optimism about having my children picking at welts and scabs on their normally peachy skin and hauling finger nails through their heads collecting the eggs of these little critters then littering them about the house so we can keep the glorious cycle of nit life a-turning in the warmth of our home.

As I type this my head is itchy as buggery.  I don't want to slather my newly dyed red hair (see pic) in anti-nit chemicals.  It will probably turn my hair green.