Ruined Mother

Last night was another long one. Its been 7 days now that Mol has been ill with suspected Swine Flu. And a very long 7 days it has been. Yesterday STUPID mother that I am I sent Mol off to school and Liz off to nursery - under the naive assumption that they were clear and healthy. Only to receive a phone call from nursery at 2pm saying please come and collect your dripping sweaty sad toddler, and then when Mol got back from school she sort of went a paler shade of white and almost passed out on the sofa as her temperature and headache came roaring back into her body.
Evil nasty swine flu. Be gone! Get ye orf to hell!
So, since Sunday night there has not been a sleep yet that has been un-interrupted by one or t'other of the girls - sweating falling out of bed waking up with parched mouths medicine being administered here, cold flannels being administered there - me or Husband clomping messily down and up our stairs to our loft bedroom. I managed to pour half a bottle of white nurofen all over the floor in Mols room as I didn't have my glasses on and couldn't see how much stuff was going into the 5ml teaspoon and then I heard a sort of sticky trickling drip noise and managed to stick my toe into the pretty disgusting mixture before realising what was going on.
And now, to top it off. Its the Ashes. And damned and botheration Channel 5 has decided to show the cricket "highlights" (nothing high about cricket re-runs...) at the exact same time as East Enders. Husband, because he so kindly abandoned his client lunch yesterday to scrape dripping Liz off her nursery floor, was obviously going to get to watch the Cricket Highlights yesterday whilst I twitched and fidgeted next to him eating blue cheese and listening to Mol upstairs coughing and groaning. In the end I had to leave the sitting room - the highlights were so dreary. And there's some strange kind of man-love-thing going on between Husband and the men on the screen as they rub balls in their nether-regions and skip about the Cardiff pitch. He gazed adoringly at the screen and if one of the men, lets say, Flintoff because that's the only name I can remember (and its weird, again, because he's called Andrew, but actually called Freddie and that's some sort of funny cricket-person's joke - ha ha ha, Freddie Flintoff, like y'know, Fred Flintstone?! ha, HILARIOUS! - honestly I nearly pee'd myself when I heard that one), dropped a catch, he curses and tut's at the screen, muttering, but I wouldn't have dropped that!
How long do the Ashes last? I think a bit longer than Swine Flu. But not as long as the insanity that having to watch weeks and weeks of "highlights" (that means England losing again, and again, and again) will fall upon my head.
Right now, on this sunny Friday, I feel rather a.) ruined by sleepless nights and b.) depressed at the thought of having a Cricket V Enders fight possibly up to 3 times a week for the entire summer.