The Beckham of the Blast
If sneezing were an Olympic event, Brian would have 10 gold medals. If it were a show, he'd be a star. He is, after all, a man with many allergies. He's not sick. This sneezing thing has gone on for years and doesn't happen that often. But when it does, watch out! Normally, I don't mind. Everyone's got to have a talent. He's the Pavarotti of the Proboscis, the Ace of Achoos, the Mark Spitz of the Spritz. I once stared in awe while he sneezed his way rapid-fire across a 50-foot room.
So, when I coach him, these days, to bury his face in the crook of his elbow during a blast, his super speed and strength (plus arabesque pose) have been an issue. There's too little time between impulse and expulsion, and he can't quite wrap his arm around his face. Okay, so instead ... he leaps to his feet and sprints as far as he can. That works, since it's just the two of us stuck in this house for eternity (er, I mean weeks). And, frankly, it's the best exercise he gets.
But today was special. As you know, he's been keeping busy sorting our canned goods. I had a few new cans stashed in a shopping bag. He insisted that we sort through them to make sure we know what we have. We set them out on the dining room table, and -- thank you, Brian -- organized them according to type of food (yay).
So, a couple hours later we were in the kitchen, finishing dinner, when he got that look in his eye. Springing to his feet, he flew into the dining room. I didn't see. But I knew.
"It's fine," he announced. "I aimed the other way!"
Four days down. Three weeks, three days to go.