I awoke this morning with not only the slightly increases level of fatigue I endured yesterday, but also with a sore throat.
Oh, and the face slapping news that the two big kids had the day off school due to a Teacher’s Strike. The Littlest One was home with me all day, already.
I never know what to plan for the days he’s home; some days he needs my undivided attention and other’s, he’s quite happy in his total obliviousness of my existence. Or, he is until he needs a peanut butter sandwich.
Today was a good one, and he and his brothers played almost beautifully together; mostly when Monkey Boy could be Dictator and do dictatory type things throughout their game playing.
And I got some work done, much work done. Until around lunchtime when the throat kicked up a notch and panadol wasn’t touching the sides. This called for ice-cream.
The unfortunate thing was that Grumpy Pants had done the last We’re Out Of Ice-Cream shop, which means he purchased the ice cream. It was Napolitana. I hate Napolitana ice-cream. Things deteriorated, I noticed.
It had been on special, so he brought more. This meant the ice-cream bowls for my ice-cream maker (well, the kids’ ice-cream maker, that I use for making delicious ice-cream for myself, like coffee and, um, coffee flavoured) were displaced and not in the freezer, happily freezing and readying themselves for my medicinal needs.
So I feel asleep on the couch instead.
Which I had hoped would place me in good stead for the evening’s activities; i.e. after school (or would be if they went) swimming lessons. I even started the process early, to ensure we weren’t rushed.
I believe my larynx may have been damaged in some small way, as my numerous requests that the children get organised, in a variety of formats, were all interpreted as “Please ignore me and continue sitting on the floor playing LEGO.”
We’re out the door five minutes later than I like to be, and arrive at swimming lessons half an hour early. This is almost as bad as racing in the door, right on time. Urk.
I sit for an hour, watching my various children partake in their lessons; my head seemingly participating in the same activity (i.e. head swimming), throat hurting and an incessant “Can I play Angry Birds on your phone?” in my left ear upon the conclusion of Godzilla’s lesson.
I wish I was hallucinating it, as it is much more simple to put a stop to auditory hallucinations than a nine-year-old hell bent on relieving his boredom using my only form of communication with the outside world.