I hate being laid up. Like, HATE IT. I am inherently lazy, and usually am not generally opposed to a day spent sort of lounging around. I do it more often than I should, really.
But FORCED lounging, well, the only good thing about that is that I can make my husband do the dishes without feeling guilty about it.
To top it off, this weekend I got pinkeye, compliments of the 4 year old carrier monkey that lives with me, who brought it home from preschool. Being prohibited from driving AND having a contagious condition? The universe must be seriously laughing its guts out right about now.
And I'm discovering that I'm not really a very nice person. I mean, it's all well and good to be cheerful when things are fine, but when your foot hurts and your body goes stale from inactivity and your mind goes to mush because it's too hard to concentrate on anything real when you are in pain and you can't see past your eye boogers, it's harder to maintain a cheerful exterior.
In short, I'm becoming a raging emotionally unstable banshee from hell.
This morning, I broke down in the kitchen upon discovering that my daughter had poured the last of the milk into a large cup, just for fun. There was no mess to be cleaned up, only room temperature milk that could still be used for cereal. Normally I would have just packed my kid up and gone to the store, but since I can't drive, I knew that there no more cold milk to be had until my husband got home from work that day.
It was too much. I started to cry, and asked tearfully why my daughter didn't put the milk back in the fridge to keep it cold. She got confused, and then worried, and then started bustling about, saying things like, "I can put this milk back in the fridge, mom!" When I resigned myself to eating cereal with warm-ish milk, I still sat there crying into my Captain Crunch. Little Sister continued to be concerned, and offered me her leftover milk from the cereal she had eaten about an hour before, and she said, "I'll put THIS milk back in the fridge, and in 4 seconds, it will be cold again!" I told her not to worry about it, that it was fine, so she left the bowl next to the fridge and said, "It's just riiiight here, Mommy, if you change your mind." She said it softly, soothingly, like she was trying to calm a crazed animal.
She then came back to the table and awkwardly stood there, looking at my dripping face, and finally whimpered, "Just please stop crying, Mommy!"
It struck me then that I'm not sure if in her short life, she's ever seen me cry. I don't know if that's a good thing or not, but it did make me feel a little sheepish that the first time she sees her mother break down in sobs is over milk. And not even spilled milk at that.
Tonight I unleashed a storm of fury at my 9 year old who refused to do his homework. Because nothing motivates a kid to do his math like his mom throwing a bigger tantrum than he did.
I'm just sayin', today MIGHT have been a bad parenting day.
I think I'll take a Vicodin and try again tomorrow.