What Time Is It?
For the longest time, it was considered hilarious to answer "It's time to get ill..." whenever anyone asked for the time.
Okay, it is still pretty funny. And actually, considering that we are midway through October and this is the first time this school year that I've had a child do the bleh-uh-uh-uh-hork surprise vomiting onto my shirt, I could revise the joke to "It's about time we got ill. Duh."
And here's the sad part: I'm sort-of excited about it.
When I woke the kids up this morning, and my three-and-a-half year old was lethargic and complaining that her tummy hurt, I parked her in front of the TV and got the other two kids ready to leave. When we drove to school, and she didn't put up a fight about her rights to sit in the big girl seat, her siblings breathing on her, control of the radio, her need for a water bottle, anything... I suspected that this was going to be a good day.
When we got home from dropping the kids off, she whined for about 30 seconds and then puked down the front of my shirt. I checked her temperature (normal) and put her on the couch, where she has been zonked out, watching movies ever since.
You see how evil I have become? I am so grateful for the break from her normal, whirling dervish behavior that I'm totally okay with having to clean vomit out of my shoe. This is the first day in two weeks where I haven't been rocking back and forth, repeating "use your big girl words, my ears don't hear whining" over and over. I haven't had to strong-arm anyone into anything. I might actually get some work done today.
I am sorry that she feels yucky, but maybe this is the universe's way of telling her to knock off the ding-dang whining. Or perhaps, the parenting gods decided that I needed a gimme, lest I start shouting oaths in their general direction.
I'm a bad mother. Go on, send me the award.