Mums are just not allowed to be sick!

So I've been parenting from my bed this long weekend, as my being has been taken hostage, by the microorganisms of the dreaded 'winter-season flu!' Which has been so kindly donated to me, by my caring, sharing, germ infested son! In fact, there are now three of us, that have been rudely trampled & more time off from school L

What does it mean?

It means my house develops its own syndrome, and throws up all over itself (with the help of little people {aren't they sweet}).

Sweet reminder

All the work, that I have achieved throughout last week, has been turned upside down. The washing pile that was reaching the roof, gets left to the teenage daughters’ efforts (and if you have teens, like me, well, you would know that, the washing is the last thing on their to-do lists). And of course, a particular child decides it’s time to start wetting the bed, at the onset of winter, directly following the breaking down of my clothes drying machine!

It means, that every five minutes one child comes in, followed by another, complaining about another, asking for food, screaming, crying, covered in snot, vomit, having an asthma attack, with wet socks because they just ran outside, across the grass in the backyard, because Mummy is distracted.

Then another child surfaces with needs & wants of their own, and the disappointment that Mummy is not adhering to them right away.

It means Mum’s not doing anything, so neither will I, becomes the all-round attitude.

It means that I am stuck inside, when I clearly would love to be anywhere else! Seeing as how I worked so hard to get this place in order.

What’s for dinner? Where are my clothes? Why haven’t the dishes been done? Why is the house a mess?

Have you met my children? Or any for that matter?

Because Poetic Mumma is sick in bed! That’s why! Now can somebody please come and nurse me back to health & make me some chicken soup? That would be nice.