I knew there might be trouble last week. As I boarded the plane, I noticed that the row in front of mine was occupied by a child wrapped in blankets, flushed yet shivering, and coughing up a storm. Next to her was a man who looked as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Although I felt bad for the child, I felt worse for everyone else on the plane, since we were all trapped with Patient Zero and sucking in recirculated, virus-laden air for six hours.
And now I am on day five of the cough that won't go away. I've run through my supply of codeine-laden syrup from the last time I had a cough worthy of a rock opera about the refusal to shoulder the eminently unsurprising consequences of dumb decisions. I'm at the point where my head hurts every time I cough, and I had better be developing a six pack from the constant abdominal engagement, and I sound like Kathleen Turner.
Here is what is not helping this persistent, tiring malady: This is the week where our daughter has decided that sleep is for suckers.
I am so tired and so run-down at this point, I have begun imagining what a sick day might be like. An entire day where all I have to do is nap. No day job, no housework, no preschool wrangling, just ... a clean bed (that I didn't have to make after doing a few loads of linens), a hot cup of tea (that doesn't get cold because something comes up that has to be addressed RIGHT THEN), a lengthy snooze (that I can sink into without fretting about missing preschool pick-up or ferry pick-up), a clean and quiet house, a to-do list that is either empty or complete.
But the fantasies aren't going to help me finish the work I have due tonight. They're not going to get my tomatoes into the raised bed tomorow morning before work, or the load of clean clothes folded. So I'm going to beg your pardon, but I need to wrap this up and cough my way through tonight's to-do list. Make a bed for me, would you?