And I was so hopeful about today.
It was a good start, all the way up until 7:45 am. That's when Sarah's teacher called to say there was no school today. Because there was no water. In the WHOLE TOWN. And Tom had work stuff he couldn't get out of, so...
So I packed a lunch for us and loaded the Giant Bag of Everything with everything and off we went.
We missed rounds. They were early today -- when? when does that ever happen? -- and apparently nothing came out of it, but still.
I tried to get Jane to breastfeed when she was awake and looking happy and, no. She couldn't get any kind of latch and started to tire out, and her Os went from the 50s to the 80s.
Sarah kept pretending to mess with the tubes, which was freaking me out, even though she wasn't doing anything. I was sure everyone was staring at me and thinking, "What kind of person brings in a germy kid in the first place, and then lets them run wild?"
I read The Nutcracker to the girls (three times in a row), and Sarah kept bringing me board books to read, but Jane wasn't having it. I finally put her back in her bed and she immediately started hisatting. As if to say "FINALLY. BED. YES."
Sarah and I ate, and she was persistently being three. No outright tantrums, just dragging feet and deliberately chewing with her mouth open and dancing on the couch (chanting "Shake your little bum" which soon morphed into "Shake your little gas" when she had some -- nice), and not keeping her mask on and touching germy stuff everywhere and just... being three.
I gave up. I did. I threw in the towel. I just couldn't handle it. Jane was unhappy, Sarah was freaking me out, and I finally left.
What am I going to do when Jane's home? That's all I could think about on the drive back. I'm not going to be able to just walk away from this stuff when she's here. I don't know if I'm going to be able to manage all this when it's real.
I don't think Jane felt any better about it than I did.
"Can you go away? Can you just go away? Can you go away?" (a la Meg Ryan in Kate and Leopold)