I have been ill for the last three days. Nothing serious, just a heavy cold. It feels strange having a cold in the summer. Instinct is telling me to wrap up warm, retreat under the duvet and consume hearty soup and plenty of chocolate. But the chocolate is sticky and the bed too warm and it feels wrong to be indoors and hibernating in the first week of Wimbledon.
When I am physically low, I am emotionally low too and the ‘voices’ of criticism are out in force. I know that I am a ratty, grumpy bear-with-a-sore head and yet I find myself under a barrage of attack at how mean I am to the children, damaging to their self-esteem and that not doing very much with them for a couple of days will permanently damage their life chances.
I find myself whinging that, if I had a proper job I could take a day off. I think I even claimed that I would resign yesterday. The children have worked very hard at ‘being good’ and have told me that they will be fine if I spend the day in bed. However, little people do need attention and find curious ways of topping up low running supplies. After I had shouted at my six-year-old following a particularly irritating lunch-time episode yesterday, she told me tearfully that she was fed up of me being ill. Me too, honey, me too.