Home Alone

February 1st: my first bout of sickness so far this winter.
I suppose, with hindsight, it was inevitable. Only last week I heard myself boasting to a couple of sniffly colleagues: "It's amazing! None of my family has been sick so far this winter! You know, I really think our immune systems are tip top now..."

Yes, naturally, I deserved to get sick after such a blatant flouting of superstition.

So, yesterday afternoon I writhed about a bit at crèche, fuelling suspicions that "no. 3 is on the way."
No, no, no, absolutely not.
But you know how it is: you puke up at crèche in front of a gaggle of mothers, and the rumour is launched. It will probably take another 6 months to demonstrate beyond any doubt that it really was just a tummy bug.

I then made a quick "sick stop" on the journey home - much to LB's disgust - and proceded to be sick for most of the evening.

Today, I feel better, but really: what's the point of rushing in to work with an empty stomach, a headache and a pressing urge to be horizontal?

This is the new me: the one who is kind to herself.

Today it's home alone: just me and the soft purr of the washing machine: that unique feeling of physical weakness mingled with euophoria: I have a day to myself! No pressure! No expectations! Just rest up and get better!