Welcome to 2026!

This year I’m officially the last one to wish you a happy new year. And why? Of course, because of the bipeds! One weaker than the other.

First, Hydra collapsed, probably from pure joy that all the books made it in time. Around the same time, the plague decided to show up too, as a bonus gift nobody asked for, and took the Girl down right under the Christmas tree. She was groaning and wailing like she was on her last breath, and I honestly thought nothing worse could happen. But then the Boy got sick. Mighty paw! Every joke ever made about men’s illnesses was a bedtime story compared to his sniffles.

For a whole week of his “deadly illness,” he only had a runny nose, but you’d think he was on his deathbed, convulsing, moaning, buried under tissues, menthol drops, and mint sprays that made the whole apartment reek. Even I smelled like menthol ointment because the Girl rubbed it on his chest, and I was the one keeping him warm. The result of that heroic effort was a rash the Boy got from all that greasing, and I was accused of being his accomplice because apparently I “steamed him up” by lying on top of him. No one gave me any credit for losing my sense of smell for half a day and reeking like a giant licked cough drop for two more.

After a week of suffering, when the Boy could no longer fake it, because no matter how hard he blew, not a single drop of snot would come out, we finally took out boxes of used tissues, put away the nose sprays and mint junk, and the next morning… Hydra was completely down again. That’s when I started packing my little backpack, ready to move to Grandma’s and abandon this plague-infested land forever. The only thing that saved them was the fact I can’t reach the pedals, otherwise they’d have seen a car packed to the roof with toys and treats disappearing in a cloud of dust.

So I had to take shelter in the only un-sneezed-on spot in the whole apartment, under the table, and just pray I wasn’t in the path of any incoming sneeze droplets. Luckily, the Boy is a much better nurse than a patient, and the Girl is a skilled dictator who knows that a four-combo of garlic soup, liters of tea, onion syrup, and potatoes with butter will get her back on her feet the fastest. And so the smell in our den evolved yet again, now with strong notes of garlic and despair. We all stank like a walking vampire-repellent ad, while the Girl coughed and sniffled like her life depended on it.

I honestly thought it would never end, until one morning we woke up, stepped out of the bedroom, and the whole apartment was clean, aired out, and smelled of cinnamon rolls. “The Girl’s better!” the Boy declared wisely, noticing that he didn’t immediately trip over anything by the door. The washer and dryer were already running at full blast, and from the kitchen Hydra shouted, “I just mopped, don’t you dare step on it!” You’re the only thing that’s mopped here, I thought to myself as we squinted into the light, looking for dry spots to reach her. That theory was confirmed when we got a long list of chores for the day… yep, she was definitely feeling better!

For the walk, we carried out three boxes of trash. More boxes went down to the cellar, we cleaned the washing machine filter, hammered a loose strip back in place, oiled the squeaky hinges, and a million other things, and the list just wouldn’t get shorter. So I decided to put an end to it. After the walk, I stood right behind Hydra in the kitchen and gave two very powerful sneezes, splattering her Achilles heels. The effect was immediate! I was given a bowl of broth and two spoonfuls of cold syrup. Then she wrapped me in a blanket, put me on the Boy’s lap, and ordered him to watch me closely. The chore list was postponed indefinitely, and the Boy and I spent a wonderful day at the computer. Yeah, I’m pretty proud of myself.