Oh cluttered, messy, messy house. You will not be cleaned today.

And dog hair on the floor over there? You have to stay and stay and stay.

And you, my laundry? You will be folded. But you will not, will not be put away.


My baby is puny, he’s clingy, he’s cuddly. His nose is runny and his forehead is hot.

And me? I’m covered in boogers and poop. Covered in kleenex and covered in snot.

Not mine, mind you, but his, he’s been sharing. This isn’t for wusses. Nope it is not.


So dinner will probably be crackers and cheese. Maybe some pickles, maybe some meatballs.

‘Cause every time I move to get up, his arm clings to mine and he whispers so small,

“Mommy. Wock.” And rock I do. Singing so softly, so asleep he will fall.

So even though that’s a lame-o “poem” (term used loosely, believe me I know), that’s the way it is around here today. Dishes are piled in the sink. The cat’s asleep on my lap, and the Terror is asleep on the cat. The dog’s outside barking her head off (argh) and I can’t move to go yell at her to stop. And, I’m gonna be pretty sick of Thomas the Train by the time this day is done.

But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that I just noticed snot in my hair or a booger on my shirt, or that I’ve washed my hands and followed up with hand sanitizer so many times today that I look like I have OCD. It doesn’t matter that the only hygienic feat I’ve accomplished today is cleaning that poor little boy’s butt a million times (see? Told you not for the squeamish) because of some little bug in his belly. Or that said butt is so frickin’ raw from said bug that he cries huge tears each time I change him because he knows I’m going to put cream on this sore spot and that one. It doesn’t matter that his cloth dipes are snug in the drawer and will be until this thing passes because that would be even more of a mess, and we’re just gonna use the disposables for now. It doesn’t matter that we’re both still in our pjs and have to leave in 10 minutes to go pick the Goldfish up from school (yes, it’s almost 3:30).

What matters is that I just want him to be better. Even though it’s not a serious illness, I can’t stand it. I hate it when they’re sick. Those glassy eyes and the little sweet face that vacillates between too pale and too flushed just kill me.

But selfishly? Girlfriend needs a shower.