At 2:23 am this morning, I knew it was coming. As I lay awake all night feeling my stomach churn, too uncomfortable to go back to sleep, I already know this day cannot go well!
At 6:15 the alarm on my phone goes off and so does the internal alarm. The next ten minutes are spent in the bathroom. My entire system is angry–diarrhea, vomit, and I pee myself because apparently after birthing three children I can no longer vomit without peeing my pants. Don’t hate me because I am so sexy!
So a sick mom on virtually no sleep—this cannot be good! I spend the next 30 minutes pretending my family does not exist despite their need for breakfast and getting my oldest to school on time. I briefly remember sick days where I got to stay home from work and watch cheesy movies all day by myself. These days seem like luxury vacations compared to my present torment.
I finally drag myself downstairs to make a miserable and useless appearance hoping my children are suddenly sensitive to the needs of others and do whatever they can to make my day better. I make it as far as the couch before I know I need to stay still. Movement seems to be my enemy. I park myself on the couch and have one second of peace before my children sense I must be wanting to meet their every emotional and physical need.
One wants to climb me like I am Mt. Everest, one wants to share every detail of his life, and one is trying to be sweet by handing me the largest book on the planet in case I want to read something while I am sick on the couch. One of the children begins trowing pillows, one insists on wearing shorts to school in November, and one refuses to wear pants at all. This is the day the back-log of laundry in the basement catches up with me and my children apparently have no pants.
I suddenly feel like pants are optional. Two of my children dress in shorts for the day and one remains in underwear and a t-shirt.
I mutter a few unintelligible words to my husband before bypassing him and heading for the bathroom for round two.
I feel brief relief and decide I should make myself coffee. I attempt to use our brand new Kurig which apparently works differently than any other Kurig I have ever encountered. I battle with the coffeepot for three rounds before finally getting coffee to come out rather than hot water, only to overfill my cup and create a coffee flood in my kitchen. Coffee tastes terrible after puking. So I decide not to drink it.
This has used up all my available energy so I return to the couch. I realize I have no idea what my four year old and two year old are doing. I pretend not to care. I pretend I don’t have a four year old and a two year old and I am home all by myself.
I realize my girls have sneaked upstairs to watch TV on the iPad. They are not allowed to do this. I let it slide—for almost an hour. Today they can rot their brain on television. Brains that work well seem optional. Suddenly the Barbie laptop on the coffee table becomes possessed and begins playing music and occasionally says, “select your language” repeatedly. It is too far out of reach to shut it off and too close to ignore it. I suddenly realize why I was able to pick this toy up at a garage sale for such a steal.
The incessant chatter from Barbie eventually drives me to take a shower. I offer to let the girls watch television. The television is a better parent than me today.
I get out of the shower and realize I don’t have pants either. I get into bed in just my towel and take a nap while the girls watch television. I tell myself that nothing is going to get me out of this bed.
Fifteen minutes later my daughter informs me that she is poopy and I need to change her. I don’t. nothing is getting me out of this bed. Fifteen minutes later she reminds me of my failings as a mom and I succumb to the reality that no one else is going to appear to change that dirty diaper.
I get out of bed, put my pajamas back on, and get the diaper changing supplies only to realize that instead of putting on a diaper, my daughter decided underwear would be a good choice for today. There is now poopy underwear to clean. I. lose. it. I take all her underwear out of her dresser and hide them up high in the closet. I begin to go into a tirade about how I am sick and cannot be expected to clean poopy underwear. I go on and on about how I should hose her off in the yard…..she looks at me and says “I love you” and gives me a hug. I do not deserve this reaction, but I am still super angry about those poopy underwear.
My anger drives me to wash a load of laundry and clean up the table from breakfast. I decide to write this post and ignore my children. They are screaming. I am pretty sure one just bit the other one. I keep writing. This is my therapy.
They start getting along and I start feeling a little better. Now they want lunch. Moms do not get days off. They should be exempt from the flu.
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