Life keeps getting in the way. If it's not writing a job application (a writing task I shy from with the best of them), it's handling the four year old's second stomach bug in two months. I don't think that's fair. If I ruled the world, I'd make it illegal for any child to be sick more than once a year. Anything more is cruel.
It was fairly short lived, but has meant no pre-school sessions for the past two days, which means no daily writing time (and evenings are for cleaning and packing this week). Now I'm frantically checking the other children for any tell-tale signs that they may vomit in the next twelve hours. Cranky? Maybe they're falling ill. Don't fancy dinner? Even though it's only slightly burned? Must be coming down with the lurgy. Crying because her brother told her she ought to eat her apple with peel on (and she was just about to do that very thing)? Well, that's got to be a sign she's sickening for something. Or maybe that she's a bit of a diva. I'm on tenterhooks waiting to find out.
Meanwhile, I'm tackling the packing and cleaning lists, and feeling thankful that so far the Super Hero parents, and Ever-ready Auntie J have succumbed rather than the six year old or the two year old. Is that heartless and ungrateful? I suppose so. But at least they have a chance of finding a bucket in the dark on their own, and I get some sleep. Hope they're better soon, though.