Would You Just Sit Down Already: Self-Care Musings

I'm telling you, folks, it is not dull being me. Where have you been, Eliska? You may have wondered. We thirst for your wit, Eliska! You may have said as much. Okay, you didn't say as much. But at any rate, you won't believe this stuff. This stuff writes itself. There's so much, I'll give the blogger bullet points (what's the point in waxing?) Hemingway didn't:

• Two sons, five and seven, high fever, piggy flu: a week
• PMS/period (sorry, male readers, but you must have respect for the rage)
• Broken appliances
• Husband held prisoner at work (I may be prone to hyperbole)
• Piggy flu attacks me as the four days of
• Snow and ice and all that entails
• Rolling blackouts: see above

Y'all, you are lucky to have not seen me on the news. And I couldn't get well, it seemed, despite being at home. Physically and emotionally, I felt more and more run down. And getting impatient with myself, because I was telling myself things like "It's just staying home with the kids." And "I know my spouse must, must get in his seventy hour serfdom, and I must facilitate it!" Okay, again, I may be exaggerating a wee bit.

But, as people do often wonder, I do have a point. I got lost in the forest and couldn't see the trees: Running a daycare is hard work. When you've got three children under the age of seven, you are officially a daycare, and if you are cooped together for weeks on end (I must work on the exaggerating), it might be more exhausting than your usual routine. Add above bulleted stressors, and I'm telling you, no judge would convict me.

I did what we women do: in a way so subtle I didn't notice it until my non-healing flu forced me into bed today. I put everyone else's needs in front of mine. Which is awesome. Until you run yourself into a position where you are no good to anybody. Like me, today. Poor spouse is juggling the kids and his job while I lie flat, harassing everyone on line, rambling febrile rants. Twitter wants to chloroform me. My Facebook friends are fleeing in numbers. And now you're reading this, hopefully coherent, post. But my point:


Every now and then, you've got to put the oxygen mask on first when the plane's going down, no matter who you are or how many responsibilities suck at you. The world will make it one day without your supervision. I think. I'll get back to you on that tomorrow when I peek out the bedroom door to see if anyone is bleeding or anything's on fire.