I? am gonna sit on my ass and let my sick child watch television and wait around until it's time to eat.
That's as far as it goes.
I'm getting that airy floaty feeling that signals the beginning of A Sick. I don't think I'd've caught it had I not busted up in those Thin Mints -- the sugar, it'll leave your immune system bullet-riddled on the curb! -- but here we are. The cookies, they are gone, and so is my resolve to unstick these bits of tin foil and broken crayon from the bottom of my feet.
At least when I am exemplifying the stereotype of the Stay-at-Home Mommy Who Just Gave Up I can enjoy it with some kind of ironic distance. Abandon myself to it and yet maintain a detached awareness of how my house, it looks like a movie set if you were trying to get across to a bunch of single twentysomethings just how comically terrible things get when you have little kids. The only thing missing is a a wailing sweet-potato-besmeared infant in a high chair. And that's only because you're too late. Come back thirty-two months ago, we'll see what we can fix up.