Yesterday, after battling a 102 fever and various other bodily indignities over the weekend, I was faced with one of the ultimate tests of motherhood.
Could I, after eating approximately three and a half pieces of bread (no crust, please!) over the course of two days, drag myself out of bed and get the Munchkin to school?
The short answer?
The long answer?
When a five year old jumps on your bed and takes the covers off of you, you would have to be comatose to not react in some fashion. So, I steeled myself to the fact that I needed to get this boy to school. Not out of some altruistic educational principle, but just to get him out of my hair for the next three hours.
So I trudged into the kitchen to make him his oatmeal, wishing that I could also partake of some type of sustenance without my stomach protesting in various sorts of ugly ways, and sat at the table watching him eat.
And that was as far as I could go.
There is no tale of internal fortitude that enabled me to get him ready, myself ready, and then drive him to school. That I dug deep down and found the strength do to what needed to be done for the good of my child. There is no heartwarming fable with a happy ending of how a good mother will always get her child to school, regardless of whatever physical ailments she is suffering from.
You will have to go elsewhere to find that type of tale.
Over here, there is just the story of a mom with the best of intentions who winds up passed out on the couch while her kid watches Scooby-doo and plays Webkinz.
Good times, my friends. Good times.