I’m ill. Sore throat. High temperature. Headache. Feeling crap and falling asleep all the time. No appetite and then I’ll be starving and need to eat three bowls of rice krispies NOW.
I hate being ill. I hate that DH had to come home from work because I couldn’t stay awake any longer. And that he cancelled a trip to conference because he didn’t expect me to be well enough for him to go. I hate people bringing me drinks and that my housework is undone. What I hate most is that I caught it from my son.
Because this means he’s about 36 hours ahead of me in getting ill and 36 hours ahead in getting better. So when he’s fully recovered and raring to go I’ll still have a fuzzy head and difficulty concentrating. I won’t be well enough to take him for a walk to the post box let alone a trip to the park to burn off his newly restored energy.
Boo had it mildly and didn’t seem too ill at all; BaBa doesn’t seem to have got it at all. Which can only mean that the wonderful protective properties of breast milk are working and with every mouthful she’s been gobbling down lots of antibodies.
The other thing that I hate about being ill is when DH succumbs. He’s come home early, cancelled a trip and kept things ticking over so he really deserves a better roll of the dice than to spend the next 48 hours in bed. But that’s the law of families – what one gets the others share.