I am Sick days are no more Mum

​This πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡sums up me this week.


My minions are dosed.  I’m dosed. Everyone is dosed.
Today, I have had quite a few fantasies… 😈

I’ve been reliving old memories of long days in bed, snug and sweaty… 

I’ve been reminiscing about…

Sick days. πŸ˜‚
Remember those? 
Where if you were too poorly to go to work, you simply didn’t. You dragged your  sorry ass as far as the doc and chemist, stocked up on whatever you needed to haul same sorry ass through the next few days, plonked said ass on your sofa or in bed…and SLEPT.
You SLEPT, interrupted only by zombified wakening to carry out basic bodily functions…like eat if you could, or take a pee, or take more drugs.
You could remain horizontal for AS LONG AS YOU WANTED to, watching whatever crap was on the tellybox.  It was perfectly permissable to watch thon Jeremy Kyle dude.  It made you feel better, because despite your feelings of utter shittiness and the fact that you probably haven’t showered in 3 days, you STILL looked better than some of the specimens on there.πŸ˜ˆπŸ˜‚
And when the JerKylers were finished shouting at each other in a language you couldn’t quite follow fully, you turned off the tellybox and closed your eyes…and SLEPT.

You slept until you felt better, then you pulled yourself together, had a shower and went wearily back to reality.
Sick days.

I miss them. 😳
Because I realised today that since I became a Mammy, I haven’t had one. 

Sure, I’ve been sick or unwell or felt shitty, but despite that, and even on days where Doc declared me off work, there’s one job we don’t get sick days from.
Being The Mammy.
Where you can nurse yourself through a nasty cold with a few boxes of Day & Night; where you can stifle your own need to puke while you clean up someone elses; where you can survive on coffee and painkillers, because there are LITTLE PEOPLE who don’t give a shit if you feel like sleeping or puking or crying.
You still make sure they are fed, they are washed, they are kept aliveπŸ˜‚… and the washing still gets done and the dinner still gets made (or ordered!) and you get to fit all of your wallowing into the time it tales for one episode of Corrie before you get up again to start whatever needs done before bed.
So yes, today, I fantasised.  Now, instead of watching chicflicks and drinking flat 7up or lemsip, you drink coffee and berocca boost and put Paw Patrol (or even Peppa Porkdepending on the severity of your illness) on a loop and pray it’ll entertain them long enough for you to sit in one place for 30 minutes.
  You trick your body into thinking it’s on a sick day, when REALLY what you’re on is a ‘same-as-every-other-day-except-you -feel-and-look-SHITTIER-than-every-other-day’ day.
Yet another line they omit from the Parenting manuals… “You will NEVER have a sick day again…the sick days you now see as terrible and depressing, are soon going to look like a weekend in a spa. You will NEVER sleep yourself better again.  Unless you’re in hospital, where let’s be honest, the nurses have to waken you so many times with beeping machines and charts that you might as WELL be at home with the toddler.”
So yeah.  Poor fecking me. πŸ˜‚
In fairness, I’m not that bad, it’s just a headcold, but still, as I sat under my Minis today, I remembered the days where I lay on the same sofa doing nothing but getting myself better.  And then I wished I could take all of their snuffles and coughs and fevers off them and make them all better and then I pulled up my big girl knickers and looked after them.  
Because I am Mamma Bear. And that’s what Mamma Bears do. πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–

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