Alone and bra-less, I am at Dairy Queen eating a Blizzard with extra peanut butter cups. For dinner. Shameful, I know, but right now I don’t care.
My daughter has been sick for four days with a typical childhood illness. As parents we feel so bad for our children when they are ill that we do everything we can to make them comfortable.
To that end:
- I have had Caillou on repeat for 96 hours straight.
- I have alternated Tylenol and Motrin around the clock.
- I have offered extra cookies.
- I have suggested that we go in the basement and play on the Step 2 Climber at midnight.
- I have neglected any daily grooming that I may or may not have needed in order to devote myself to the above activities.
Anything to make her happy.
Finally she is well, but now I’m not. I’m completely frazzled and exhausted. My house is littered with rogue thermometers and Saltine cracker crumbs that the dog will not lick off of the couch. The refrigerator is empty.
So for the first time in days, tonight I did something for myself. Right after Caillou ended on Sprout, I put my daughter to bed and raced out in the rain for a sanity-saving ice cream.