When I was little, I kind of liked being sick, just a little bit. I liked when my mom would make up a bed for me on the sofa so that I could watch TV. I got to drink ginger ale (we never had pop in the house) and she'd make my favourite comfort food for me (tuna salad inside Pillsbury crescent rolls, hot from the oven.) I liked the feeling of being cared for, looked after, safe and warm and cozy.
Now I'm an adult, and the only one in charge of two other human beings....not so much. Being sick is awful. What started as what I thought were spring allergies soon revealed themselves as a cold, which then morphed into the worst case of bronchiitis I've had since Rae was born. And it's kicking my ass. The coughing is bad, but the bone-tiredness is the worst, I have zero energy. It's hard to explain to the girls that Mommy just isn't up to walking to the park, or that just getting to swim lessons is a major feat, and I don't have the energy to do anything afterwards except go home and go to bed. They want to help, bless their hearts -- Rae stands beside the couch I'm lying on and very seriously brushes the hair off my forehead and kisses me there, an echo of the many times I've done that to her fevered brow -- but they're still too little. They're the ones needing looking after.
It's frustrating to be home and yet not have the energy to catch up on the laundry, or mow the lawn, or even get on the computer. So I'm apologising for being a bit absent around here and on your blogs lately. It's not that I don't care. Hopefully, in a few days when the $200 worth of antibiotics and steroids kick in, I can get back to blogging and visiting your blogs. And maybe even tell about the near-death experience we had here at the house.
(I'm not too sick to tease, lol.)