This morning as I curled into the fetal position on the bed with my face in the pillow and begged Kent to either stay home or kill me, I tried to remember when the last time was that I could take a real sick day.
Maybe there was a time before the boys were born when Fluffs was self-sufficient enough that I could crawl under the covers all day like I did when I was a kid? Nope. Even then she needed help with baths and food and post-potty bum checks, and had to be dressed for and driven to activities. So it’s been at least six years since I had the option of staying home sick from work. Maybe the hardest thing about motherhood is not the pay or the hours, but the sick-leave policy. And the lack of maternity leave.
I thought about taking advantage of the $1 burritos at Cafe Rio today so I wouldn’t have to do dinner, but the 45 minute wait almost broke my will to live last weekend. When I got into that burrito line I was young and beautiful! And by the end, I was…not.
It’s 11:25am. That’s not too early to put the boys to bed for the night, is it? Probably too early, right? What if I cover the windows and turn the clocks forward?
I’m not getting out of this day, am I?