Your friends and family barely recognize you.
Your Secret Sweatpants of Shame, once occasionally worn in the privacy of your home, are less a "secret" now than they are a "uniform".
It's like you're not even speaking the same (any) language anymore.
You haven't endured - or produced - this level of whining since adolescence.
You feel desperate to escape, yet guilty for feeling that way.
The walls seem to be closing in on you.
You can't quite figure out how to deliver the bad news (medicine) to your man.
When you do finally have a few precious moments to yourself, you feel awful about wanting them - but not so awful that you don't greedily take 'em.
You look at your guy and think, "But he's so cuuuuuuuuuute . . ."
|Please forgive me the iPhone photo, but - OH, THE MISERY (poor Master P's, that is, not mine).|
After that last hellish week (hello, Ides of March!) - I'm happy to announce the end of both Master P's mystery virus and my pity party. For any of you who can't read Sarcasm Font - beneath this selfish moaning I truly do adore my boy with the fire of a thousand flaming blah blah blahs and am thrilled he's finally back to his boisterous boy self. I'm grateful that I get to do things like nurse him back to health, I really am.
It's just that I was also thrilled & grateful when our "mom's day out" sitter returned from spring break this week. And lo, I did sprint out the door for a few hours of blissful freedom, and it was good.
Am I missing anything from that list up there?