So the Dancer was sick for three days.
Apparently, it was contagious because my house caught it.
There wasn't much warning.
One minute I was trying to get through two birthday parties, a baptism and a sick child and the next minute I turned around and
Every cupboard, cabinet, closet, basket, bed and drawer up chucked its contents all over my floor.
Not one room was spared.
It was grisly, people.I thought for a moment of just leaving the carnage, putting up the For Sale sign and walking away, but under all the mess there was a good house begging me not to pull the plug.
So I rolled up my sleeves and set up a triage. Worst piles first. All hands (all two of them) on deck. Code Red.
Eight hours and eight loads of laundry later I think the house is recovering. It was shaky for a while there. I thought I might lose 'er.
Only problem is - I require medical attention now. I think I just cleaned myself sick and senseless. The Life Raft is coming over tonight to take me to dinner and ladle some soup into me and nurse me back to health with some food I didn't cook and adult conversation.
The sure cure for all motherhood related ailments.
If you need to call me I will be in a bubble bath up to my nose. I'll holler back tomorrow. (I'm trying out slang. How'd it go?)