Something happened today that has never happened to me before.
I didn’t have to work, and it didn’t cost me a dime.
All weekend, George has been sick. I’ve mentioned it here before, but he is the least stoic person on earth when it comes to illness. Last night I was really on the fence about whether or not to text my clients and tell them I was closing today; I didn’t want to pass along the germs, and when George is miserable he’s a handful & a half. I decided I’d let him get a night’s sleep and make the decision early this morning.
He slept pretty well (on the couch lying on me, but still) and woke up reasonably pleasant. His fever was gone. I figured I’d open and worst-case scenario, he’d relapse and I’d set him up somewhere under quarantine with Netflix and his blankie.
Then Charlie’s mom texted, describing the same laundry list of symptoms, and said she’d be keeping him home today. An hour later I got an almost identical text from Daisy’s mom, so I had the whole day at home with just George and it didn’t cost me a day’s wages.
So, he sacked out on the couch while I did some laundry and general tidying up. We both rested because when he’s sick & sleepless, I don’t get any sleep either. By early afternoon he was jumping across the living room yelling “I’M SORRY FOR THE HOPPING, MAMA, BUT I’M A KANGAROOOOOOOO!”
Tomorrow is his snack day at preschool, so I decided to get that put together. My original plan was to make pumpkin oatmeal muffins. I even bought some Halloween-themed muffin cups.
I cleaned up the kitchen and got ready to start.
I couldn’t find the pumpkin.
I know I bought a can of pumpkin. I remember thinking to myself “don’t forget to buy a can of pumpkin”. I remember holding it in my hand at the grocery store. What I can’t remember is putting it away when we got home, and I certainly can’t locate it anywhere in the house. I went through the entire pantry. I went through all the kitchen cupboards. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, trying to breathe deeply and visualize myself finding the pumpkin in case it would trigger the memory of where I put the goddamn stuff.
None of this worked. George was starting to get upset because he’s spent the whole month thinking about the pumpkin muffins. In desperation I suggested blueberry muffins… “and we can still use the Halloween cups, and we’ll call them boo-berry muffins! How’s that?”
He loved it. “That’s a funny funny joke, Mama,” he assured me, “and I’m going to tell it to my brother Ron and my brother Harry and my daddy and my teacher and my friends.”
Mixed up the muffins. Spooned up the batter. Grabbed the trays to shove them into the oven and then…
You know when you’re going to drop something? You can see it coming, and it’s like everything moves slower but not slowly enough for you to avert catastrophe? The leading edge of the muffin tin caught the oven rack and the whole thing tipped toward me, landing face-down on the inside of the muffin door with a weird splopping sound.
I managed to get everything sorted out. The snack is ready for tomorrow. Laundry’s caught up, bathroom is clean, George is feeling much better and I remembered to take meat out of the freezer for dinner.
Ask me another time, though, about the twelve circles of crisped muffin batter I still need to scrape off the inside of my oven door.