The day Garfield warned me about

It almost never fails.

You manage to get through the morning smoothly, arrive to work on time and in good spirits, and proceed to kick the crap out of the stacks of work waiting on your desk. Before you know it, it's midday and your mood has actually improved ,thanks to good music and background blocking ear buds. It is going to be a good day, indeed.

Then.

It's always on Mondays when a child gets ill; When your bosses assume you're nursing a hangover or just don't want to be there. Out the door you fly to rescue your poopy-feeling offspring, noting that you'll have to go in to the office on Saturday to make up the hours missed. (Side note: American corporations needs to get a frikken clue about sick days. A parent can not possibly handle all doctor/dentists appointments plus days that a child has to stay home sick or when school is closed, on THREE measly sick days.)

After picking up the sick child, you realize that he's not sick and only had a bit of yucky belly after breakfast. However, you're required to sign something about the "incident" (aka: el poopoo rapido) and told not to bring him back for at least 24 hours. No fever, no lethargic behavior, no more ick. But those are the rules. You have no more sick time at work. And the "ill" child is trying to do back flips by running up the side of your body.

In desperation, you contact the child's father to beg him to take care of his spawn the next day; The same man who has not taken a day off for anything in almost five years. He is, of course, too busy at work to help. But, he's really bummed that he can't help. Then you mentally curse him with scabies and male pattern baldness as you slam the cell phone shut. Guilt about being worried about work when your child needs you sets in and clamps down on your heart like an industrial vice.

Hey, since you're having such a great day, why don't you start cooking dinner in 95 degree heat while four dogs compete for first position UP YOUR BUTT, and then serve said dinner to invisible people? Because the only ones eating it will be you and your non-sick child. The other adults in the house will forget to tell you that they're not getting home until well past dinner, even though you're expected to cook for their fat rumps every day at the same time.

Take a breath. Have half a beer in an icy mug. Relax. It's almost over and it could most definitely be worse.

Just when you find your Zen buried under the fury, you realize that your not really sick child is looking a little puny. You stick a thermometer in his mouth and lo, it reads 100 degrees in the shade. You kick yourself for being such a whiner and administer orange juice, Tylenol, and favorite stuffed animals.

Then you collapse into a heap in front of the computer to do a few hours of work after the poor tot has faded off to sleep, and mentally prepare yourself for the dead of night awakenings that are sure to occur because of fever nightmares. Then you feel guilty for dreading them.

Sigh. Monday.