Sick of it all

I woke up to the sounds of scuffling in the hall bathroom. It was 2:30 AM and the second or third time I heard Girlie getting up, so I peeled myself out of bed to investigate.

I poked my head in the door and she said she wasn't feeling well and then broke into a cough. I didn't even have to press my hand against her flushed cheeks to tell she had a fever. I got her some water, dug out the humidifier and Tylenol, and took her temp. Her fever was fairly low, but I gave her some Tylenol anyway turned on the ceiling fan and the Hello Kitty nightlight and tucked her back into bed.

As I slipped back under the covers, Hubs asked me what was going on. I told him Girlie was sick.

"Keep an eye on her." He mumbled.

I knew what he was thinking. The damn Swine flu.

"I know." I whispered. "But her fever isn't very high, and she wasn't achy, so I think it's just a run of the mill virus."

Sure enough, this morning her fever was down and she is feeling a little better. I am keeping her home from school today and hoping that she'll feel fine by the weekend.

So we'll continue washing our hands, like our President advised us to, and wait out the latest crisis du jour with the rest of the country. I dug out the Purell, which I am careful not to overuse, and we'll keep that handy too.

Still, I know that the little bottle of antibacterial goop can't protect us from the worst thing we have ever seen. The Fear Pandemic. We'll worry ourselves to death over oil, money, a flu we caught from the pigs, bankruptcy, Mexico, our mortgages, the layoffs, and the list goes on and on and on.

And we'll all die, just inches from a keyboard tweeting or texting or blogging our last pithy remarks.

Confession

Tonight I had to take away the playdoh ice cream sundae maker that Girlie bought with her own money. I had to do it because I said I would. She was being extremely mouthy (including repeating what I said in a mocking tone) and not doing what she was told after being asked many times. I threw the playdoh ice cream sundae maker in the trash. I had to. I'll probably fish it out after she is in bed, but I can't give it back to her for a very long time. Needless to say, she is pretty upset about it.

I hate being the adult. It sucks.

Just another manic Monday

Today I am in a really great mood.

Despite the fact that, after getting up before dawn to do some writing, I only managed to get down two poorly crafted paragraphs before the Little Guy woke up an hour earlier than usual and demanded to get out of his crib.

Despite the fact that the early waker shrieked his way through the grocery store shouting "Momma balloon!" like he had some form of preschool tourettes.

Despite the fact that the aforementioned shrieking early waker (and crusher of souls, but who is holding a grudge really?), then whacked me in the head with the stainless refrigerator door while I was rooting through the cheese bin causing a shooting pain in my head that can only be likened to being stabbed by an ice pick.

Despite the fact that there is still a bag of canned goods sitting by the pantry door waiting to be put away (nope, can't do it).

Despite the fact that my kitchen is a disaster because the shrieking early waking head basher pilfered all the tupperware and lids from one of the cabinets and flung them in every direction.

Okay, maybe not. But I am trying really hard, and that counts for something right?

She works hard for no money....

If my life were a movie, there would have been a point in the story, set more than a few years ago, when the heroine (me) realized that climbing the corporate ladder was not conducive to a family life. The soundtrack would swell (maybe Bittersweet Symphony by the Verve) as she packed up her desk and turned in her laptop. No longer a slave to the money 'til she dies, the movie gal would smile broadly as she waves goodbye to her coworkers and the elevator doors close. Cut to the scene a few years later when that same gal is snuggling a sweet baby on a blanket in a sunlit yard, blissfully happy to have found her true calling in life. THE END. You might have missed the sequel, though. The one were the beleaguered mother of two runs screaming back to her job just before her brain evaporates.

I know I chose to opt-out, as they call it these days. But today I am wondering why exactly I worked so hard for all those years. Instead of graduating from high school with honors and a scholarship in debate, I should have taken home economics, so I would know how to sew these so-called-iron-on patches onto the Brownie vest. Instead of graduating in the top 2% of my college class, I should have taken child psychology and more babysitting jobs. Instead of working on gantt charts and million dollar budgets, or (later) window displays and payroll taxes, I should have learned to knit. Our plans have me back in the workforce in a few more years, once the Little Guy is a little older. I just hope I can still string together coherent sentences by then.