It's only Tuesday, but this has been the longest week ever.
Sunday, I came down with mastitis. For those of you unfamiliar (and how lucky you are) it's an infection. Of your boob.
And it makes you soooooo sick. I woke up Sunday evening shaking like a crackhead, demanding Shane turn down the ac, and took the hottest shower ever (I'm not convinced I turned the cold on at all, and am quite shocked that I don't have 3rd degree burns, honestly) which still felt like the Arctic.
People in igloos were shaking less than me, for serious.
And I looked awful. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and I seriously looked like I was on something. I was pale, with huge dark circles under my eyes. Also, since my fever induced delirium made me forget to actually wash my hair (instead, I conditioned it, twice) I had the stringiest mop of awful on my head ever.
Then I added to my "homeless woman on crack" look by layering no fewer than three shirts, two pairs of pants, and fuzzy socks...none of which matched, btw. And I don't mean like, pj mismatched. I mean, like, glaringly different colors and patterns combined to form something so WTF that even people of WalMart wouldn't have bought it as a serious fashion choice.
Of course, I felt like death, so I couldn't have cared less.
When I returned to bed, I moaned something incoherent at Shane which he (rightly) took as me begging him to hold onto me, so I could steal his body heat and stop shaking. During this, I also kept tearfully apologizing that I was inconveniencing him on his birthday (it was after midnight and thus his 34th birthday. But, really, who doesn't love to have sleep interrupted on their birthday to take care of their sick fiancee? It's the American dream.)
Oh, and I forgot to mention that my right breast was swollen to 2x the normal size and anytime anything touched it, I almost screamed.
Fun fact: it took my sickly self TWO HOURS to remember that ibuprofen existed and take some. Good times.
I woke up the next morning drenched in sweat (who knew dressing for the North Pole in 77 degree weather was a bad plan?) but better enough to go to my first day of work. Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond her control, my trainer was almost a half hour late. So I sat in a chair, having no clue what to do, and waited.
The actual work part was pretty good, and I stayed unsick enough to handle it.
Then I went to the doctor.
First, I waited 45 minutes beyond my scheduled time for anyone to see me. By this time, I felt awful again, and had, of course, forgotten all pain medicine at home. Good times. Oh, and while I was in the waiting room, there was also a woman there who kept spitting chunks of godknowswhat into a plastic pink thing in her lap.
Ten minutes before we're ready to go in, Keira lets out a HUGE fart. Suddenly, I feel something wet on my thighs. What the...? I looked down, and sure enough, my child had pooped so much that it had outleaked her diaper and gotten ALL over me. When this happened, I was holding her on my lap, so this ended up creating, after clean up, a huge wet spot right on my crotch. Fabulous.
I finally procured antibiotics and went home, where I pretty much decided that I didn't give a damn about anything. When Shane came home, I took to my bed with Keira and let him fend for himself and Rhi. I'm sure this pleased him greatly, as it was, again, his birthday. No cake or ice cream or gifts here. :/
Today wasn't as bad - mostly just hot and I forgot my debit card at home and couldn't go to the store to get some stuff - but it still feels like the longest week ever. Probably partially because I still don't quite feel 100% yet (although so much better than yesterday.) And also partially because if I get sick, everything goes to hell around here. There was a mess of dirty dishes, Rhiannon had taken out every toy she owns and threw them all over...ugh.
Speaking of which, tonight I told Rhi to clean up her toys. She didn't want to; she'd start, then stop and do something else. I probably asked her 4 times or so, and Shane asked her a few times, too. So I told her that I was cleaning the kitchen and that when I was done, if she hadn't picked up her toys, I was going to throw them away. You know what that brat said? Oh so casually, she said, "Ok, Mommy, throw them out. I want you to." Are you kidding me? How am I even supposed to get through to this kid? It's making my nuts, because she's three. She helps me wash dishes and mop and stuff - because she thinks it's fun - she damn sure can pick up her toys. She just doesn't want to, and I can't figure out a way to get her to. I've tried making it a game, I've tried asking, I've yelled, I've thrown away toys. Nothing bothers her! Infuriating. If any of you has any suggestions, please...I'm lost here.
Ugh. I'd better get off the internet and do something productive, like shower and lay out clothes for tomorrow. Goodnight, blog readers.
OH! I switched up some stuff here, and you can click little adjectives about my blog at the bottom if you don't want to actually comment, or if you think I'm totally profound or something (yeah right) you can share it. I also posted my blogroll for you all to see, because I follow some awesome people. :)