The stomach flu is yet again making its' rounds through our small household. Liv, evidently, has a stronger immune system than Briar and me since the duration of her illness was marked by hours, not days. Briar gets ill, bounces back, and then gets sick again. It is amazing to me how kids can do that. Act all normal and chipper until the bucket is actually under their nose and then run away laughing again afterward.
I, other the other hand, feel like shit. I am pleased that this most recent ailment (we seem to get sick far more often than the general population) didn't hit me full bore until the kids were on the mend (holding back someone else's hair whille ralphing in the same bucket is close to impossible). BUT feeling like you'd prefer death over the squeals and laughter as little ones jump on your bed while you lay prone and covered in your own filth is not a happy occurrance either.
My mom came over night and whisked the kids off to playgrounds, Tim Horton's, swimming and other sought after locales so I at least don't feel that they were neglected at all. In fact, Briar wanted to go home with her rather than stay here with me and my vomit receptacle.
But now, I am here to entertain, feed and stand mostly upright while fighting off the urge to close my eyes and long for one of those flashes of light and a quick replay of my life's events before being whisked off to some cloud-filled utopia.
I so fucking hate doing this alone.
The Firehouse Chronicles Episode 12
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