May you survive being projectile vomited on like I was this morning. Chewed up apple slices look like festive confetti when spewed across multi-colored shag rugs.
May you survive when your college-student babysitter finally arrives to spell you at 3PM and yet looks not fun and frivolous but wan and lifeless. She informs you that the meds she is taking for the currently undiagnosed ailment only make her nauseous not dizzy. She doesn't see any problem giving the small children a bath. You suggest she go home and sleep after she completely over-boils a hot dog.
May you survive any ailment that then sets upon you in your weakened exhausted depleted state, because frankly, you will have to muscle it out with whatever is available and not expired (for too long) on your medicine shelf. That is if you have enough remaining strength to unlock the child safety latch. Parents have been found crumbled up against the bathroom cabinet, feverish in a fetal position, the lock in tact. In my case, it is the hint of a soon-to-be-raging UTI that will remain untreated for a bad long time because I have no doctor here yet, and absolutely refuse to subject myself and my small children to an Urgent Care facility for sixteen hours. Then again, at least there would be barf buckets there.
May you survive the rain that pours down on top of all these calamities, and not beat yourself up too much when around lunchtime you throw all your morals about television and movies during the day out the door and set your child down before the god of flat screen and finally get a moment to brush your teeth, or vomit, or cry, or whatever you will do...
God bless you if amid all this, you find time to write.
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