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.