Feel free to move on to another blog in your reader right here. I'm whining. I'm pouting. I'm probably being snarky.
My ungrateful children gave me the plague. I asked them not to. Seriously. When Buttercup came down with it more than a week ago, I told her I loved her and I would take care of her, but that she didn't need to share. I think she shared. A few bedtime kisses and some unscheduled coughs and sneezes may have done it.
But maybe it wasn't her. Maybe Valiant did it after she shared with him. Yep, 8 days after Buttercup came down with the plague, Valiant was felled. That was Monday. Today is Thursday.
Instead of playing around and coming up with a Shoot Me post or working on my Fertilizer Friday post, I caved...right after I finished all the grocery shopping, got the car smogged and registered and picked up a couch for my oldest son, the one who seems to have gone AWOL. Right when I thought I'd be heaving a sigh of relief and doing a little bit of fun stuff, the sledge hammer hit. I, too, have succumbed to the plague.
I told the kids they were bad children. I whined via email to my sister. I put my pajamas on. I took drugs. I feel horrible. The kids don't seem to have much sympathy. Valiant put Bean on my chest and she scratched me. Buttercup generously told me that since I was dying I didn't have to read a chapter of our book at bedtime and, in the meantime, what could she have to eat?
I wonder if I'm already dead and this IS hell and I just don't recognize it because it looks so much like my bedroom.
Is hell being in my bedroom, feeling like I'm going to die, and feeling frustrated because I have so much I want to do? Maybe. That is it! I've solved one of the worlds mysteries: hell is my bedroom, sick as a dog, stuck playing solitaire because you can't fall asleep but you can't focus to read.
Glad I figured that out. Now I can go back to feeling sorry for myself.