I should know to be wary of any day that promises hours of child-free productivity.
After weeks of togetherness, everybody was scheduled to be back at school today. Freedom was in sight. In reach. Tastable. It was just going to be me, a laptop, and a very large, watery iced coffee.
Instead, it was just me, a man with a hacking-cough, his rather sour-smelling companion and several specimens of the Bronx’s very best, all crammed into the waiting room of my local Urgent Care (one more time and I get that free latte).
Frances has strep for the third time this school year.
We survived urgent care, came home and she promptly threw up on my favorite cushions.
Now Frances is a relatively easy kid, at least by the standards of my brood, which admittedly have been set rather low. But she cannot, for the life of her, go into a room, other than the bathroom, alone. When there are siblings around she can often convince (read: bribe) them into keeping her company. When it’s just the two of us, the day is a sequence of me following her around, or visa versa.
Have I mentioned that she is the ONLY child with her own room? Yeah, that makes buckets of sense.
The only thing I did today worth noting was eat my weight in chocolate, shower (sort of), and not totally lose my shit when it felt like I had grown another (streppy, overly dramatic) shadow.
There’s a medal in there somewhere, right?