Oy

Along with good Lord, oy is one of my favorite expressions and comments. We had one of those darkest hour before dawn kind of mornings this morning, beginning around 4:00 am when I woke up with a start and heard The Husband shuffling down the hall, the sound of Sophie humming and the hacking cough of Oliver. I got up to investigate which included asking The Husband why the television was on, its blue light flickering and he replied that Oliver was up and that he was up and that Sophie was up. 

Oy.

I went to the boys' room, where Oliver was sitting up in bed with his bedside light on and flooding the room with light. Turn the light OFF! I hissed, and silently handed him a cupful of Boiron's Honey Cough Syrup. It's day four of Oliver's cold, and while I've been the model of compassion and sympathy during the day with him, he tends to milk the illness for all it's worth and in so doing, my compassion and sympathy leak away. I'm afraid that he's already showing signs of a "bad" sick person and will, I'm certain, morph into a guy who has Man Colds. I pity his future partner.



I then walked out of his room and into Sophie's where I found her walking around, humming and shivering in the cold, so I put her back in bed and climbed in beside her, curled around her and closed my eyes in a vain attempt to go back to sleep.

Oy.

This is where the dark night of the soul comes in, when all rational thought slips out and worries and anxieties slip in, as well as inane questions that slither around the room, under my eyelids and into my brain. I guess Oliver isn't going to school tomorrow, again. I can't believe The Husband can lie on the couch and watch silent tv at 5 am. How am I going to drive Henry four times to the westside a week and back for practices and pick Oliver up from rehearsals for the whole month? If I were like Serena Williams' mother who drove her and her sister constantly around to play tennis, would Henry be a better lacrosse and baseball player? Have I dedicated myself enough to helping him fulfill his dreams? This is so not mindful to lie here and think these stupid thoughts. Breathe. Now I can't go to the conservator workshop tomorrow morning and will have to go next Friday. What if I don't get it done, Sophie turns eighteen and has a medical emergency the day after and I can't make decisions for her? Should I make Oliver go to school tomorrow even though he's been up half the night, coughing? Will I ever exercise again? I shouldn't have eaten so many of those chocolate covered almonds. How much Onfi is left before I have to do that whole Canadian thing again? I haven't put Sophie's orthotics on enough this week. Why is The Husband snoring and why doesn't he fold the afghans up and lay them over the couch when he goes to bed? Why do I always fluff the pillows in the morning?

You get the drift. Good Lord. 

So, the morning is here. Oliver is home and I've put off my workshop and sent Sophie and Henry to school. The Husband is grumpy but will soon leave the house, too, and I'll be stuck here filling out financial aid forms and tending to the Boy with the Man Cold.

Happy Friday.