I'm writing this post from what I can only presume is my death bed.
Okay, so maybe I'm being a little dramatic, but I am sick, y'all. And so are all three of my boys. Only they're not sick in the "let's-lay-around-and-watch-TV-snuggled-under-blankets-and-recuperate" way. Of course not. They're acting as crazy and rambunctious as always, with the addition of a whole bunch of extra whining and wheezing and irritability and about ten times more snot.
Which of course means that my house is falling to pieces around me. This is day two of the illness, so laundry and clutter and toys are piling up with a quickness. I swear, the heavens were conspiring to torture me when they made me a natural neat freak and then stuck me with three
So that's why, ever since I opened my crusty eyes this morning, I've been
Rita was not a happy camper.
What sucks is that I've spent two of the last three weekends sick. First I had strep. Then I had one clear weekend, and now this, whatever it is. Normally I only get sick like twice a year, so my declining health as of late has been a real bummer. But this is also the first year I've had a child in public school who I swear brings home every damn germ breathed into his general vicinity.
The kicker? He only gets mildly ill. For, like, half a day. His brothers and I, on the other hand, get the full effect.
Anyway, even though it turned into a fever-fueled rant, the point of this post originally was to tell y'all that I'll post something better tomorrow. Unless I am in fact on my deathbed.