This week was a shit show in my house. My husband went a-travelling for work. Not uncommon. And while I'm not a fan of the single life for a week, I make do. That is, I make do when I'm not vilely ill.
Each night dragged on and my illness got worse. I had no energy. I could barely keep my eyes open, let alone *make* something for my lovely children to eat. They were left to brush & floss their own teeth, as who wants Mommy's "snot hands" in their mouth? Yuck.
Monday started out well enough. I was bullied into picking up Taco Bell. These kids felt empowered. I was too worn down & tired to care.
Tuesday saw some Wendy's drive through action. The salty taste of victory was upon their little fingertips, and they liked it.
Wednesday night reached the boiling point. I had no voice left, and couldn't even muster off the couch. I ordered Papa John's online with my phone. A few things suddenly occurred to all of us. They realized they were in control, and I realized they realized this fact. I was frightened, they were emboldened.
The oldest steps up to the plate, "Do I really have to go to bed early just because you are too sick to stay awake?"
Are we going there? I've read this book. I know how Lord of the Flies ends [caution: spoilers coming]...This mutiny is not going to end well for any of us. With the last vestiges of my strength, I collect and squawk out - remember that I have no voice - as menacingly as possible, "Yes. And if you would care to consider, I will not be sick forever, and I am capable of tightening up your bedtime from now until kingdom come should you really feel the need to challenge me..." She backs down. Good, I've effectively kicked Ralph back into place. There will be no ritualistic murder dance on my watch...even if my eyes are swollen & weepy.
My sweet son tries next. Now, I'm not too certain if he was genuinely concerned and trying to take care of me or if his plot had sinister motives, and I wasn't too keen on finding out just then either. "Mommy, you look so sick. I don't want you to die. Just close your eyes and it will be ok. I'll take care of you. Close your eyes....close...your...eyes..."
OMG! NO! I've read this book! You people murder Simon! He was sick, and had a seizure or some shit...and I'm sick. And while I may not have a seizure, THAT kind of chaos is not going down. I'm aware of the ugliness that will ensue should I just 'rest my eyes' for a moment tonight.
This book does not have a happy ending. Piggy dies in this dystopia. Since I've already discovered who Ralph and Simon are...I look to my littlest. Poor Piggy. NO! I can't let this happen. As the wolves begin to circle, I decide that NOW is the perfect time for bed. Much longer and all hell is going to break loose.
I usher the kiddies to bed and take my temperature. 100.5, nice. Not too bad though. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a sick day. And it is. My fever reached a 101.3 pitch, and I downed more NyQuil than a human should consume in a 24 hour period, but I come through the ordeal sweaty and slightly bewildered, but my reign on the deserted island is still in tact.
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