I woke up this morning feeling off. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but I just couldn't face work. I couldn't face asking "how is your pain today" or worse seeing someone delirious with pain and helplessly searching for a nurse to administer the PRN. I curled under the blankets watching the thin sunrise, no squalling Possum waking me and I couldn't get out of bed. It was as if my limbs were flaccid. It wasn't even that cold.
Bingley asked if I was staying home, and I considered it. Considered the meagre hours of sick leave I have left and thought fuck it. Even if I lost my whole $160 a day I still couldn't go in today. And I lay in bed, letting everyone wake at their own pace instead of the usual hectic rush of mornings.
Then I dropped off the kids and crawled back into bed. And felt miserable. Emotionally just spent. Like something had just snapped in my brain and I couldn't move. And I read some mildly bitchy comments on a forum I am a member of and burst into tears. Which is completely bizarre for me, and strengthened my position on staying in bed.
Then just as I was getting cozy my cleaner arrived. And I felt guilty staying in bed and got up and started cleaning and tidying. THen felt physically sick and had to sit down for a little bit. And sensibly paid bills and other similar things before the phone rang letting me know that the Possum had gastro and I had to pick him up. So I did. My cheerful blue eyed Prince not looking remotely sick but excited and cherubic at seeing me. ANd I grinned back it him, in his mismatched daycare spare clothes and brought him home.
After about half an hour he was clearly hungry and tempting fate I gave him some custard. Which he promptly spewed back over me. And then, after I cleaned him up and gave him some water he spewed some more. Demonstrating my love by holding him to me as he vomited, catching the drips in my hands rather than despoiling my freshly mopped floors.
After all that I vomited as well, so felt pretty goddamned miserable all round.
But come 4pm my cleaner had finished, the house was sparkling and I felt marginally OK and the Possum was his cherubic self again. I set about making one of those dinners that takes too long for me to cook when I'm home from work and waited for Bingley to get home so that he could pick up the girls. I was in such a benevolent mood that I started pulling out the ingredients for Anzac biscuits which are his favourite (washing my hands thoroughly of course) while feeling much more cheerful than I had this morning.
Then I noticed it was getting a bit dark outside so I called Bingley to check where he was. And found out he wouldn't be home til after 5:30. The MOnkey's kindy closes at 5:30. Ergo, fuck. I grabbed the Possum praying that his vomiting had ended for the day, changed my pyjama pants for some maternity jeans that were stashed in the cupboard and raced off to pick up the Monkey. When I heard a telltale grumble from the right rear axle. And hoped against hope that it wasn't what I thought it was even as the power dropped through the floor.
Limping into her daycare centre I pulled the Possum out of his seat and inspected a decidedly flat tyre. And I'd left my mobile at home. Barefoot, with greasy hair pulled back and maternity jeans that weren't staying up I sheepishly asked if I coudl borrow the phone to cal Bingley, about whom I was thinking decidedly uncharitable thoughts. Luckily we have Mum and Dad's car at the moment so he could come to the rescue. Knight in shining armour and all that while we sat in the gutter looking forlorn.
After 20 minutes I was getting anxious and called a terse Bingley who informed me he hadn't been able to find the keys. Much muttering on either side before he and the Elfling appeared at Kindy, in the dark with hyperactive children to change a tyre. Oh and dinner was in the oven. Canneloni. That needed 15 minutes to cook and had already been in there half an hour. I had images of perfecting my day by walking in to find the kitchen on fire.
We finally all made it home to a very thoroughly cooked dinner and my previously pristine house covered in shit. AS in cupboards upended and draw contents scattered all over the floor - from Bingley searching for the keys.
To say I was pissed was an understatement. The girls barely touched their "yucky" dinner and mine went cold as I held a retching Possum over the balcony so that he didn't spew on the floor.
I then cried while I sang him to sleep as the Elfling harmonised with a full pitch wailing whining tantrum because she had the red towel.
It's been one of those days.