It’s cold outside. Cold and snowy. We’ve got six inches of snow on the ground, and more is falling. Normally, this would make for an awful start to a Monday morning. Normally I’d be out there scraping off my car, and negotiating un-plowed roads, and dealing with drivers, who despite living in a region where snow falls fairly regularly, still cannot manage to steer their cars in a straight line.
But my body had other ideas this morning. It decided to declare a revolt. It decided that I really didn’t need to be going anywhere today. So here I sit, aching and tired, on my couch.
Aching and tired, but not cold. Or soggy. Or enraged because of what the idiot in front of me just did. Nope, I’m just sick.
And so I sit, watching the fire crackle and the twitter stream go by. I listen to the wind howl, glad that for the moment, while my daughter naps, the house is silent around me. I sip my hot tea and re-arrange my blanket around my toes, snuggling a little deeper into the cushions.
I consider doing some dishes, but my body protests, so I don’t. I think about taking a nap. My body thinks that sounds like a good idea, so my eyes drift closed, heading toward dreamland.
But what’s that I hear? The monster is up from her nap. Reluctantly, I pull myself up from my cozy nest, wondering if it’s too soon to take some more Advil. Because while I might be sick enough to declare this a day off of work, there’s no such thing as a sick day for mommies.