I’ve been feeling kind of crappy the past couple of days. This morning I didn’t wake up until a friend happened to call me approximately thirty minutes before I had to be out the door.
I looked at the clock and really considered just calling in sick. I was miserable. I couldn’t breathe, I ached, all I wanted to do was curl back up underneath the covers and sleep for another five or six hours…
That settled it. I was calling in sick.
Only… wait just a gosh darn second…
I couldn’t call in sick. Stay-at-home-moms don’t get sick days.
What they do get, however, is the opportunity to rush around getting themselves ready, obviously forsaking numerous steps in their routine, including a shower. Then they get to rush into their kids’ bedroom and get them ready to be out the door in approximately 17 minutes. All while feeling miserable and sluggish and hoping desperately something doesn’t drip from their nose because there’s not a second to grab a stinkin’ tissue.
Then they get to parade themselves out in public wearing whatever they threw on (and in my case, it was almost my pajamas), looking as sick as they feel.
Don’t you dare get me wrong, I love being at home with my girls. I love that my youngest must have sensed my discomfort and chose to sit in my lap watching Monsters, Inc., for most of the morning, allowing me to shut my eyes for a few minutes here and there. I know how fortunate and blessed I am.
I do, however, still look forward to a day when I can just be sick. When I can make myself a bed on the couch, pull up a table to eat chicken noodle soup and sip regular Coke. When I can put You’ve Got Mail in and enjoy every second of it, or just fall asleep to it with my arm dangling off the sofa, my fingertips dangerously close to a trash can full of used Kleenex.
Ah, the things I aspire to…