I’m ill. This is not cool. I don’t have time to be ill, I’ve got so much to do. There are two types of ill people. The ones that soldier on in the face of infection, continuing to work and run the home, tissue in hand. And then there’s the second type. The type that whine and moan and cry about how ill they feel, that don’t cook a single thing the entire time and let their child(ren) run wild for an easy life, sprawled on the sofa under a duvet.
Guess which type I am?
As much as I’d love to power through, to get shit done, to show this bug what I’m made of, I’m just not cut out for it. I indulge in self pity, beg my husband to massage my sinuses and pray that someone else will offer to take care of Moo. I’ve been much better since she’s been born, as there’s much less opportunity to lay in bed, wasting away. My immune system has been better over all too, maybe pregnancy kick started it into functioning better.
Tomorrow will be a long day. My anxiety usually gets worse when I’m ill, and I’m generally more short tempered. I foresee a lot of wet hankies and a gallon of hot honey and lemon.