Shredded.

My life is exhausting.

Not in the soccer-mom-who-has-have-overscheduled-herself-run-all-over-the-universe kind of way.
Or the I-make-stuff-up-to-do-and-stay-busy-every-minute-of-every-day way either.

It is more like the there-is-always-something-to-be-done-and-no-time-to-do-it-all-by-any-human-being-with-a-sound-mind way.

The past week has been a non-stop path of developing a plan filled with landmines, then recalculating another plan filled with roadblocks followed by, ahh, recalcuating yet another plan.  All on the fly.

This week brings a nasty bug circling our house.  My husband is leveled for three days with this junk and it starts searching for its next victim.  I dread that I am going to get this and, worse, I fear our sweet vulnerable boys getting hit.  As it turns out, at least so far, I am the handed the sick baton.  Great.

This germ descends on me just as my husband is starting his busy season, a time when our lives consist of lonely, gray days and long dark nights of winter.  This work season is a tough time for our family.  The boys constantly ask for him because they so crave his time and attention.  It's particularly difficult for me because my best friend is buried in his work.  He leaves the house as we are starting our days and arrives home at all hours of the evening.  It's unpredictable and tiresome for everyone.  We are constantly challenged to juggle my husband's intense work schedule and the typical things that life flings at us.

The start of a week usually brings a clean house.  Well, although the house has been cleaned tip top to basement bottom, it appears as though it was never cleaned with the torrent of toys littered all over, the superheros neighboring the matchbox cars and the shiny red and yellow building blocks mixed among the wooden train pieces.  Along with a "clean" house, I also typically kick the week off scrambling to get to my pilates class while a friend watches the boys.  It's the only hour of sanity that I have in my week and I spent it torturing my abs.  In this particular week, I spend the better part of a day shoveling out of 4 inches of snow from a blustery Great Lakes storm.  And this is just the start of the week.  I am already mentally fatigued and I know that I am feeling run down since a dull, back ache and sinus congestion started days previously.  But this turns ugly.

A sinus headache to rival all sinus headaches.  Ever.  By mid-week, I start feeling it's wrath.  I begin questioning if I have had a stroke and if I need to go to an emergency room.  An intense, throbbing headache that feels like a thousand little elves in my head swinging 10 ton hammers at the interior of my skull.  These little guys will take a lunch break for a few minutes, but then get right back to work.  They have no mercy.  The pain stabs me with the strength and power of a wrecking ball at times, shooting down the back right side of my neck.  I gag down two horse pills of maximum strength decongestant and a glass of water.

An hour or so later, I realize that maybe a hot shower will rid my head of some of this congestion.  I leave my two sweet little boys playing in Dylan's room.  Dylan laying in his bed while Michael pretends to be the parent, reading a book to Dylan.  Aww, so cute.  It really strikes me as a genuine brotherly moment.  "Remember," I remind Michael, "if there is big BIG trouble, come get mommy.  I will be in the shower."

And with this last syllable still hanging in the air, I whisk away for a hot shower.  My terrible night's sleep combined with this brutal congestion leaves me barely functional.

I never have the opportunity to take long showers.  That's simply a luxury.  As I fumble with the shampoo and soap and let the scalding hot water pour over my sinuses, I think about how I am finally in a place in my life that I actually can shower.  Those who are parents with babies or small toddlers can relate.

As I turn the water off, I see Michael's blurry image through the frosted glass of the shower bounding into the bathroom.  "Mommy, we got big trouble in the office.  C'mon.  It's Dy-dy," he says.  I throw on my robe and hurry with him asking a flurry of questions concerned that Dylan is hurt.  Dylan darts out of the office as we approach.  Once I walk through the threshold of the door, I am greeted by a toppled Papasan chair whose parts have been thrown around.  But the headline act is the paper shredder has been opened and overturned.  Mounds of shredded paper are discarded all over the carpet with the tiniest pieces embedded in the carpet's nylon fibers.  I am seething mad.  I feel lousy and my kids won't even let me have the satisfaction of an uninterrupted shower.  Why should I be surprised?  My boys play together, of course, they find trouble together.

I send both boys to their rooms and defeated I start the clean up the mess.  Once I am done vacuuming, I head to Michael's room and discuss the seriousness of the offense, even if it was Dylan's fault.  Then, together we head into Dylan's room to relieve him from his time out.  Not surprisingly, we find a box of baby wipes has been torn into bits and strewn all over his room.  Does it ever end?!  I genuinely feel like I am a failure and somehow I am the only mom in America dealing with such absurdity.

Two days later, I am splayed on the floor of the bathroom as my husband walks out the door to head to work.  A brilliant combination of a likely sinus infection paired nicely with some sort of stomach ailment (either a flu or quite possibly taking those stupid horse pills on an empty stomach as the culprit) is how I find myself here.   My husband has no choice but to leave, since there is an important meeting at work.  I can tell by the sadness in his eyes that he hates to leave me this sick.  "I will try to get home after the meeting in late afternoon so I can help with the kids."  He kisses my forehead.

It is a day that there is no help.  It's simply the reality of being a mom.  Moms just aren't allowed to be sick.

I just need rest.  I cope all morning through a series of tears and black emotion.  Somehow I get the required 'mom' things done.  I feed the kids, even though I have no idea what is on the plates and am guessing it is food.  And I get through their critical CF treatments only because my hands have done it a few thousand times.  Otherwise, I barely move from the couch under a cozy throw.

Chills and then sweats.

"Mommy!"  Dylan stands staring in my face at eye level with his dark brooding eyes, as I lay on the couch.  He demands something in 2-year-old-'languagese' that I can't quite make out.  "In a minute..." I weakly respond and he waddles off.

Chills and then sweats.

Michael is yelling from the basement for help with his Wii game.  I drag my body of the couch.

My only window for hope is when Michael goes to school in the afternoon and Dylan is napping.  My ONLY hope to rest.

As time passes and I feed them the simplest lunch possible of cereal and bananas and yogurt, it is time to start getting ready to leave for school.  I get their shoes and socks on while they are eating.  Coats, hats, mittens and Michael's school bag are all laid out and ready for the "out the door blitz" filled with lots of winter fleece, puffy materials, and plenty of struggling and arguing that happens when we go anywhere in the winter.

I go outside and start the car to warm it up.  I have a rental car currently since my car is in the body shop (See December Blog "The Lottery."), and the rental car company decides to give me a hulking tank of a car that doesn't even fit in my garage, so it sits on my tundra of a driveway.  I cannot conceive of driving this monstrosity every day.  I am stuck with it.

Once Michael finishes his meal he starts to put his coat on and then stops abruptly, "I need to go potty!"  He sprints for the bathroom.  Typical.  I am willing myself to get this kid to his school.  He demands that I take off his pants entirely for his business, which means off come the shoes that I had put on already.  I digress further from actually getting these kids in the car.  Once he is finished, we race to get the heavy winter coats and hats on and lace the shoes that a Chicago winter requires.  I scoop Dylan up and Michael is on my heels as we head out the door.

When we get to the car, I pull the handle to our beast of a car.

It doesn't budge.

I pull again.

It won't open.

I frantically grab another door handle.

Yep.  Locked, too.

I didn't press the lock on the remote or inside the car.  HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?  I am locked out of my rental car with it running in my driveway.

I convince myself that this is the work of a mechanism inside the car meant to protect the car if it is running for more than, say 10 minutes, because clearly this was not my doing.  Clearly.  I feel the hot, stinging tears roll down my icy cold cheeks.  The lunatic in me starting to emerge.

I run into my house and let out a scream.  Completely responsible parenting sometimes includes mania. I still stand behind this act for reasons of insanity.  I am so drained of all energy I just don't have it in me to deal with anything else.  I snatch the phone off the cradle and punch each number in to dial the rental car company muttering under my breath.  I ask about a spare set of keys and, big surprise, of course they don't have spare sets.  Makes sense to the rational person, but I am not rational at this point.  I have lost all civility and I become verbally combative with the poor associate at the rental car company who is delicately trying to tell me that there is no such mechanism to lock an idling car as protection (although I am still not convinced) and suggesting that accidents do in fact happen.  "Ohhh, so this is my fault?!," I stammer.  Wow, I am not in good shape.  I fully explain the situation that I MUST get my kid to school and he meets me with "You probably are going to have to call Roadside Assistance and have someone come out.  And, yes, you will likely have to pay for it."  Oh snap.

I hang up sobbing as I call this 800 number to Roadside Assistance.  Michael keeps interjecting sweetly, "Mommy, did you talk to the cup-any?  Did you talk to dem?  Mommy?"  He puts his miniature hand on my leg to comfort me.

On the other end of the phone line, I get this woman with a southern drawl who is as sweet as ice cream.  I start spilling my whole story.  "I have been puking all morning...  I need my kid to go to school today...  I feel like death...  the keys are locked in the car...  no, not the kids, the KEYS are locked in the car..."

I have heard that hope is when it's truly dark enough, you can see the stars.

Betty or Susie, whatever her name is puts me on hold and comes back.  "Ma'am, there is some light on the horizon for you.  This vehicle is equipped with On Star service, so they may be able to unlock your car remotely and not have to send some one out.  Give me a minute to contact On Star and see what we can do."  The line goes silent.  My sniffles and sobs slow.  Michael watches me slowly and controlled wondering what in the world crazy Mommy will do next.

I realize how hilarious this call would sound as one of those On Star commercials.  "Yes, this is On Star."  "Hello, I have a hysterical mother on the line who insists she has to send her kid to school and locked her keys in her car.  She is verbally assaultive, so let's try and get this insane woman on her way and off my phone."

The nice representative comes back and suggests I go out and try opening the car doors.  And ta-DAA!  They open.  She also tells me that the local rental location should be able to waive the $57 fee they charge for the remote unlock service.  It is a miracle.  And I am now a believer in On Star.  I profoundly thank the lady and hang up.  Back inside the house, I throw the phone onto the kitchen counter with a bang and grab Dylan.

It is action-mode.  I scramble to get the kids in the car and we speed off to Michael's preschool.

For anyone, being sick is no day at the park, especially when there is a lot going on.  I recall the times when I was working full-time and the biggest concern when I was sick was calling in for a conference call during my ailment.  Big deal.  For most stay-at-home-moms who are under the weather, it's a whole other level of patience, endurance, and will.  It's like making dinner in a pressure cooker in a furnace...  blind.  You can't rest or take care of yourself because you are caring for your kids first.

There are the good days and the bad ones.  There are the highs and the lows.  On a good day, I am tired, possibly exhausted.  On a bad day, well, some times there are just no words.  At my sickest during these days, I would still look around and see all the things that need to be done.  My brain floats with all the stress of constantly reacting to two very smart, active boys along with household bills, medical bills, meals, medical equipment, laundry, projects, classes, playdates, etc.  And all of this doesn't stop when I am sick.  I usually dodge it and deal with it with less focus and care, but it still gnaws at me.

I realize that my couple days spent in the black hole of sickness filled with moaning, mishaps and miracles doesn't even come CLOSE to my boys' experience of falling ill and what they have to endure.  It is in this thought that I am humbled.  And I don't really care about all that stuff that just has to get done.

Instead, I choose to look up in wonderment at the stars.