You can’t phone in sick and hide under the duvet binge-watching Netflix and hugging a mug of Lemsip. Instead you will still be up at the crack of dawn answering an endless barrage of questions, laying out the school uniform and persuading the children that it really is a rather good idea to brush their teeth.
There are still socks to wash, laundry to fold and a constant supply of meals, snacks and drinks to prepare.
The week before Christmas two years ago, we all got the flu. Full-blown “Will I ever feel better?” flu. It was a blurry week of Calpol, temperature-checking and paracetamol. While everyone else was tucked up and resting, I had no choice but to keep going as much as I could to look everyone. Luckily my mum was on hand to help us through that difficult week when it was hard to keep track of medicine lists and temperature logs as well as feeling dreadful.
Apart from feeling rotten, the thing I dislike most is how grumpy I am when I’m unwell. My patience is thinner and stretched more tightly.
This morning I failed to see the funny side of my toddler’s Shakespearean meltdown over green and red apples (she couldn’t make up her mind which kind she wanted). And I was grouchy as anything when our son dropped his cereal on the floor, splattering the walls with cement-like Shreddies.
So I’ve admitted defeat and switched on Frozen. We’re currently cwtched up under a blanket before we head off to school and I go on to work.
Now where did I put that Lemsip?