It Must be Thursday

I have a full day, several items on my To Do List that are due today, or in the next few days. All good. I have it handled. I am juggling those balls like you would not believe. I rock it.

Grumpy, however, hasn’t been too well. He had a moment of “feeling off” and developed a slight rash. The doctor diagnosed “a virus”. He wasn’t “sick” sick. I could tell because he was being demanding and picking on me.

Wednesday night, however, after Chippie wandered in for the 10th night in a row (or more, I can’t count, I’m sleep deprived) he rolled, pinned me under his clammy, feverish body and snored like some sort of demented camel. I went into Chippie’s room and got a solid 17 minutes straight. The most I’d had in a while.

Thus, I had a last minute “Can you do swimming?” … said with dying breath-like speech.

Before 8.30 I had:

  • written a script
  • written a blog post
  • sent of an email relating to a 15 page legal document
  • added 12 shop items to the Members area of the new site
  • changed 7 pages for consistency
  • got a pre-schooler dressed (not hard, lately he’s been insisting he sleep in his clothes, so I let him)
  • made two breakfasts (one for me, one for pre-schooler)
  • made two lunches
  • discovered we had NO bread at all anywhere in the house
  • compromised with Vita Weat
  • completed making sandwich-less lunches whilst making one doctor’s appointment
  • drank two MUGS of coffee

I got out the door on time, as Grumpy yelled “It’s my turn to by coffee for the other mums at swimming” to which I mumbled “there’s not fucking coffee this morning.”

I make it to school and swimming on time. Just. With no coffee.

Which is when the first ball dropped; a text from my friend, relating to our regular Thursday morning walk.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Also, FUCK!

I get home, review and edit another script.

I

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