There’s banana bread with chocolate chips baking in the oven. The baby is having his morning nap and Kate is happily painting an egg carton at the kitchen table (after vowing to help me clean up the paint mess when she’s done. We’ll see…).

I have the laundry ready to be dumped into the fucked up washing machine that needs some hands on repositioning with every cycle (motherfucker) and the house is relatively tidy, with the dishes done and the beds made.

I’m dressed. And my hair, which is still in the mid-dreading process (I will fly you out, my dear Mel, if you promise to help!), is pulled back into my usual pony tail. I have make up on. Kate is dressed for the day in a super cool, striped fleece pullover that has lasted since Emma was five and Michael is wearing a Target jogging suit that I bought the last time I visited Don. Actually, we bought two sets and I wish we would have had the sense to buy at least two more because he wears those jogging suits more than any other outfit in his closet.

Everyone has had breakfast. I have lunch planned (leftover pizza bread from last night with a side salad…yum!) and don’t have to worry about dinner for the kids because Rock is picking them up tonight to take them out for supper with his Mom, Aunt and cousin. I only have me to feed, which means that I’ll likely pull a Don and eat something like a sandwich or salad, just to fill the void and avoid doing extra dishes.

All of this probably doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, right? And any other day, it wouldn’t. All of those things are just regular, run of the mill, day to day happenings here in Janet Land. But here’s the thing…

I’m sick.

My eyeballs are trying to slide right off of my face. I’ve been fighting coughing fits all morning and have been sucking on a cough drop in between my sips of coffee just to keep the tickle to a minimum. I’ve already taken two decongestants, even though that’s not my usual style, just to ensure my ability to breathe. They are barely working because I’m * that * stuffed up. I’ve got black as night circles under my eyes and my face hurts from the congestion. And my nose is full of snot, a constant sniffle or drip. My body aches like a son-of-a-bitch and I’m cold, despite the sweater I’m wearing. All I want to do is sit in a tub of hot, hot water with maybe a little menthol and eucalyptus to help clear the passages. I can’t do that, of course, but damn, I’d really like to!

I’m sick, sick, sick.

Everything takes monumental effort, it seems. From the banana bread to the dressing of the kids to the laundry and the dishes. I’m moving in slow motion, like one of those dreams when you’re trying to run away but there’s something wrong with the floor and you can’t get your legs to move. Or like when they slow down a play by play on TV and everyone’s voice sounds wacky.

Oh, I didn’t even complain about my voice yet, did I? It’s scratchy. Painful, almost, to talk. There’s a constant rattle and I’m hoarse.

Oh God…here comes a coughing fit.

Have I ever told you how much I hate the sound of someone coughing, including myself? Well, I do. It evokes in me a most extreme sense of annoyance. And I’ve been known to bark out, “STOP COUGHING!” to someone in the middle of the throat tickle fit, even though I know they can’t help it. I say it to myself, too. I just hate the sound of it that much, like nails on a chalkboard.

I’ve been grumbling, “STOP COUGHING!” to myself all morning.

The worst part of this is not even that I’m a full blown single mom now and have no chance of reprieve during the day. I keep thinking of that open house and job fair at the call centre tonight. My Mom was going to try to print off some resumes for me (they were without power last night because of a wind storm) and I was going to go and check it out but quite frankly, the idea of dressing up in anything other than warm pajamas and getting into the car and driving and parking and talking to people in that grown up, hire me please, kinda voice makes me want to curl up into a ball and cry.

Don’t make me go!

And these decongestants make me feel weird and jumpy and they completely erase my appetite (not such a bad thing, rest assured! I’ve got some “I’m in love” weight to shed) and make me feel nauseous. But without them, I can’t breathe well enough to love my children and not suffocate them in an effort to steal their breath, like a jealous Siamese cat and a new baby.

And because I’m sick and whiny and crabby, it transcends into the lonely feeling I’ve been carrying around which makes me quite the fucking delight to be around. So, I’m staying away, folks. Don’t want to infect you with my crabbiness, even if you can’t catch a cold over the computer. If you see me stalking around your blog without commenting, now you know why. Because my mother always used to say, “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” ‘Course, this is probably the first time I’ve listened to that advice…

Happy Wednesday, Everyone. And here’s to four years of Harper. (shiver)