“I’m taking a sickie” I said to Stressed Husband from under the duvet this morning. Actually, I didn’t. It was more like “I’m daking a dickie” due to blocked nose and face snuffled into pillow – well, it was the only way I could plug up the nostrils throughout the night after having gone through a roll of toilet paper. I know – eeew!
SH’s panic stricken face appeared around the bathroom door, hair like a cocateu, toothbrush in mouth. “bot byu bee?” Then he took the toothbrush out and asked “What? After the kids have got off to school, right?” God forbid he might need to delay his meeting until later in the day to make sure the Writeonmum troupe get off okay. As he watched me slump my sweaty, aching body from the bed, his expression became less panicky and he set about bigging up the importance of the meeting he has in an hour’s time…”You know I would tell you to stay in bed if it wasn’t so imperative I be there this morning, don’t you darling?” I smile lamely, get on my slippers and do a spot of shuffling (I take after my mum, y’know).
In the kitchen, SH goes to give me a kiss – looks at my watery eyes, cracked lips and face resembling a sweaty beetroot and turns it into a pat on the shoulder instead before striding purposefully out of the door, promising to be home early. As I’m looking around for the coffee – I need coffee – Mean Teen breezes into the kitchen looking glam and tanned (TOWIE has a lot to answer for – where have all our pale and interesting English Roses gone? They’re all doing the Towie tango!) She looks at me and stops dead in her tracks “Ooh mummy. You look bad. I mean, like, really bad!” Against you sweetheart? No shit Sherlock. “I know, I’m a beauty. I’ve got a cold love and I need a coffee.” But she’s backing away towards the door, sequin beanie jauntily perched on long, blonde hair, looking the picture of health. Muscial Theatre practice calling her… “Oh soz mummy, I just drank the last bit. Get better…I love you.” S-L-A-M. Love you too.
Then I remember, buggeryshit, it’s recycling day. I open the larder/recycling cubpoard and watch helplessly as a week’s worth of papers, bottles, plastics come tumbling out along with a big can of beans that bounces up and whacks my ankle bone. Ouch! As my nose begins its first trickle of the day, I leave the heap of rubbish on floor and reach for the tissues while big, bouncy Troy, on hearing the commotion in the kitchen, comes rushing from ‘his’ cosy sofa and thinks it’s a great game to pick up bits of paper and plastic bottles and bound around the house ripping them to shreds! Nooooooo!!
My Boy and Little Angel appear in the kitchen now, “Can I have a bagel mum” enquires Little Angel sweetly. “And please may I have some Crunchy Nut” My Boy adds. And as I stand in the mound of recycling, watching the mad dog eat a whole Heat magazine it suddenly dawns on me “There is no such thing as a Sick Day for mums” is there?