Sick Day Blues

Yesterday was just another day at school; I called 7 parents about behavior, I tried to clean around kids, I tried to be effective and fun… which means I probably fell a little short. I’m working on it, ever so slowly…

And my mind was occupied with bills, bills, bills-once the afternoon bell sounded.

I worked for another hour, stacked up chairs, found cords to amps, swept; all in hopes my janitor would bless my room with a mop. It’s only been months.

I don’t know where I got this, probably reddit… I’ve had it for awhile…

Alright, I’m a little bitter. I just never seem to score a janitor who understands that mopping 2 times a year  isn’t going to cut it.

Anyway, my hubs picks me up and we head off to daycare. The best part of my day is seeing CDubs. We get there and usually it’s “Mommyyyy! Daddy! Mommmmmmy! Daddy!” And he flings himself into somebody’s arms. It’s fantastic.

However yesterday CDubs said, “mom-me, dad.” And looked like he was going to cry. We carried him out, buckled him in and went to the store. We needed milk, among other things.

CDubs sees the store and cries out, “want to go to my house!” Which he does do, he loves going and staying home. (Unless you tell him you’re going to the park) I am prepared for this and produce fruit snacks which seem to cheer him up.

We put him in the cart and he starts to whimper. Ry gives him the one thing CDubs loves above all right now, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. That Mouse….

No it can’t, because mommy gave that up. (Pinterest)

CDubs is locked in, now we can shop. In and out, grab some gummies and some milk and get out!

We rush through, get in line, and then I hear it. The cough. Not just any cough but the preemptive I-am-going-to-vomit-everywhere-and-you-didn’t-bring-a-diaper-bag cough.

Oh, shinikies.

We both automatically shove cupped hands under his little chin, as his eyes roll back and I think, “He’s going to do it!” The little elementary aged girl in line across from us exclaims, “ewwwww!” prematurely. Then, again, he makes that sound…

But our hands aren’t enough and the gastromixture gets my husband first and… it’s everywhere. The cart, the child, my husband and the opening to checkout line 3.

CDubs let’s out a scream of disgust/anger at vomiting/discomfort and  Ry whisks the unhappy toddler back to the grocery restrooms. You know the ones, in the very back, behind double doors that lead to the stockroom and loading dock.

Every customer up front looks at me like

And I’m like well I’ll move. They can check out. But I can’t because shopping carts aren’t solid boxes with wheels are they?  No, no they aren’t.

And nobody has paper towels and all the cashiers are like, “This ain’t my problem,” especially cashier 3 who’s like, “extra 15 for me!” (I’ve been there, I can’t judge)

So I angle my cart to cover the offending covered tiles while allowing access to line 3, sorry my friend, and I walk up to customer service. They are talking about something and I’m angled so they can see me but it’s apparent they are hoping I’ll just go away.


But I can’t, well I can but that’s wrong. So once they realize I’m not leaving, they wrap it up and look at me like customer service folks do, and I explain the problem. Their faces fall, but they radio for help.

A giant floor squeegee thing is pushed over it by an “over it” young man, and I get back in line. I get back on track, my odorous family returns and we book it outta there.

So I’m home, I’ve cuddled today, feed crackers and apple juice to my buddy all day (and plain ol’ Cheerios), and managed to get him to nap.

He’s been acting fine all day but kids do that. I can tell he’s not himself but to anyone else, he’d seem fine I’m sure.

It’s a good thing I suppose, besides of course I want him to be well, I can now clean up around the house. Not exciting but necessary.

How are you guys spending the day? Anyone else taking care of a sick one at home?


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.