The baby is asleep in her car seat (because you don't dare wake a sleeping baby!), you've got one boob in the vice grip of your Lansinoh pump (because you refuse to wake up the sleeping baby) and from behind your closed door you hear competing coughs like an orchestra playing an ugly song called, "Your week in hell."
The 6th grader (the same one who cried like an angry baby when, out of caution yesterday, you made him stay home, and has turned around an hour into school today and called to have you pick him up) is currently leading the piece. You also hear the kindergartener/1st grader (Its complicated. Don't ask.) hacking along with his brother from his own respective sick bed. And then you hear the tot. The one who, on a good, non-sick day is valued at the cost of 10 toddlers and 2 obnoxious teenagers, is signing himself to sleep in his crib. Or is he signing himself awake? I suppose that bit is irrelevant. Between his melodious stanzas, he lends back up to the symphonic noise his brothers in the room next door are making. Only the erupting teeth have made his coughs more goopy.
You sniffle, and cough. But only the kind of cough to clear your throat... Certainly not the tickle cough. And definitely not a hacking cough. Your agenda says you are far too busy to pencil in a cold. You may have time the other side of never. But not this week.
You disengage the vice cone, tuck away and adjust the wardrobe. So far, that now fussing, hungry baby and your husband are the only ones not coming down with this crud that you so hoped your family would avoid. And you, of course. You don't have time to be sick.