Last night, on Facebook, I wrote this:
So, I was supposed to be on vacation most of this week. I had a list of things I wanted to do — house projects, cleaning projects. Napping. I have to work Thursday, and had some prep to do for that, but it was only a few hours. No big deal.
Instead, I’ve had the flu, done childcare, handled a bunch of medical crap, gone to the vet’s office twice, and taken care of my sick husband, while picking away at the household chores as I was able. No projects. Very little fun stuff. No visible progress on the things I wanted to do.
I’ve managed to sneak in a few good things here and there, but this is not the week I wanted. It’s also not the week I needed. I still need that week, but I can’t really afford to be out of the office any more than I already have, not with everything I’m in the middle of right now.
I just want to cry. I don’t even know where to start.
and then this:
And then that night happens where the kid gets two baths and two dinners and somebody has to clean puke off the high chair because she coughed and then gagged and then it was all over and somehow you find yourself eating dry granola out of the bag while standing next to her high chair while she sings to her banana because you realize that in all of that you didn’t get any food and it’s after 8 and this kid is never going to go to sleep after all this disruption of routine and you wonder how granola tastes with rum?
And this morning, this:
So, I’m on campus today for several meetings, and I feel like crap. It’s like this virus has some sort of second stealth stage where it just makes you exhausted. Oooooor it could be that waking up every two hours all night isn’t actually good for my wellbeing. Something like that.
In short, Mama needs a vacation. A real one. (For the record, so does Daddy.)
How soon can we put G on an airplane by herself? Because I know these nice people in Illinois who would take her (and keep her!) in a heartbeat. All we need is a week…