I hate you. I mean that in the most defensive, combative, and soul-wrenching way that I can muster. I hate you from the bottom of my toes.
I hate the way you made my 6 year old stay up all night wretching into a bucket. I hate the way you make me hold her hair back with one hand, rub her back with the other, and search my nightstand simutaneously with my toes for a hair bop. I hate the way you insideously attack on Daylight Savings Time Monday.
I hate the way you are, at this very minute, lodging yourself in my 1 year old's intestines. I know this because she is already up and refusing to eat breakfast....something that never happens.
I hate the way you mocked me in your high squeaky voice as I washed my hands twice this morning in a futile attempt to forstall getting you myself. I'm sure that spending half my night in a bed covered in your 9 trillion offspring is pretty much ensuring your continued survival.
And while we're on the subject of hating, I hate the way my husband cheerfully announced that he was going to be traveling most of this week.
I hate you both. A lot.