(Pretend it's still Monday night. Trying to write this, I was interrupted about a dozen times last night until I finally passed out, iPad in hand.)
Today I was driven nearly mad - mad, I tell you.
Aliza came home from school sick and tired. Too sick and tired for dance lessons and basketball practice. I fed her and comforted her but she was certain she could not make it. Well, I told her, she could skip dance, as long as she started homework immediately and then tolerated me tucking her tightly into bed by 7. Somehow she summoned the strength to put on her leotard and leg warmers, and I assured her she'd feel better once she stretched out and warmed up in ballet.
The boys and I dropped her off and came home and I opted for the easiest dinner - popcorn chicken. I popped it into the oven and we hung out for a bit.
While the chicken baked, I brought the boys upstairs for potty time and jammies, and was too late with Zack. He had a desperately bad poop situation, which required considerable bath time. What I thought was going to be a 5 minute changing into jammies became a half hour depooping and freshening in the bathtub.
I had Zack out of the tub, dried, lotioned and dressed before I remembered the chicken. Burned it. Blackened popcorn chicken.
So I whipped up a couple peanut butter sandwiches - the second easiest dinner, and much quicker than making more chicken. I cut the finished PBJs into bite sized squares, slid them onto a plate, and then straight onto the floor.
Now you might be a believer in the 5 second rule, but I've been schooled on that. If a piece of food falls onto an influenza germ on the floor, it's not going to take 5 seconds for that germ to become best friends with your food.
Now I picture that little flu germ, wrapping itself around my sandwich. In my mind, it's tiny but neon green, and pulsing.
Anyway so yeah, I threw that right out. And I mean, I threw them. Because I was now on the edge of sanity.
Managed to knock out a couple more sandwiches without dropping them. Mark got home from work and I left to pick Aliza up at dance.
"You were wrong. I didn't feel better after I warmed up. I felt sick the whole time." Aliza claimed. "I threw up in my mouth like 3 times."
I was chastised. So I told her how much fun my night had been. She sympathized.
We walked into the house and she said, "Oh yeah, I can smell it."
"The poop?" I asked incredulously, because what she should be smelling is Lysol and Clorox wipes.
"No, the burnt chicken," she declared.
Later on, as I kissed Aliza goodnight, she asked, "Do I have to go to school tomorrow? Because I threw up in my mouth like 4 or 5 times."
Lord, give me strength!
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