The daycare called Monday to let me know Helena had a rash. I was pretty sure it was the strawberry jam we had for breakfast. Tuesday morning was business as usual, but the daycare sent her home when they saw the rash was still there. Helena's not to return until she has doctor's certificate of clearance.
(We saw the doctor this morning. The "rash" is "nothing" — dry skin reacting to extreme cold. For those keeping track, she's 36 inches and 17 kilos. Yes, I know I'm mixing metric with imperial.)
I am so out of practice. The girl never stops. This is not the behaviour of a sick toddler (runny nose notwithstanding). Weekends have their own rhythm of laziness and groceries and visits. Right now, I'm exhausted.
Of course yesterday, I was to start a new work project. Ha ha.
Meanwhile, my wrists are on fire. The thing is, I don't believe in carpal tunnel syndrome. I thinks it's the most bogus disease ever. If I know you and I've actually sympathized with you over your debilitating condition — I was lying. Rest assured the gods have avenged you. I am afflicted. I am unable to turn faucets, open jars, squeeze sponges, or steer strollers. Every time I lift Helena or that brick called Don Quixote, I swear. Profusely.
Even that damn oversized coffee mug is taunting me — I want you, but the having of you pains me.
Hanging out with Helena does put a smile on my face. She says "ludicrous" and "stoopeed" and "that'snotsobad." When she puts her doll down for a nap, she gives her doll a doll. Since our trip to the Biodome, she still mutters about "manger les doigts" — J-F told her the piranha would eat her fingers, but it seems anything her fingertips graze is worth worrying about.
And the tea parties: "Viens, mes amis!" Les amis!