As I slowly emerge from my flu cocoon and look around at the wrecked house and piles of laundry, I am tempted to play dead. Really just roll my eyes up in my head and arrange myself in a sprawl on the floor. I bet I could totally talk the kids into making a chalk outline of my "dead" body. As it is, some smartass would turn on the Roomba, which would no doubt suck up a hank of hair and leave me with a bald patch on my scalp and the sickening smell of over-rotated hair caught on a rubberized roller.

So, playing dead is kind of out. My husband is supposed to be in Minneapolis this week, and instead is laying in my bed moaning and sweating and making hairball noises. I know he's miserable, but I can't stop poking him and saying things like "See, I felt JUST like that, and I had to take care of the kids while you were gone last week. See? I wanted to die, but noooo. Had to keep chugging. 102 degrees and still making dinner and doing laundry. No break. See?"

I finally told him to just say something like "Wow, my hot wife, you totally impress me with your dedication to our family, and I am SO very sorry that you weren't able to just retire to the bedroom and have me bring you juice and water with straws." He grunted and said "Sucks to be you."

Yeah. When he's better I'm so going to come up with payback.

So, my little slice of heaven includes three children who are feeling osomuch better, except not really, since they are all crying all the time, and a husband on death's door. Mercifully, I took my daughter to school this morning, and then took my son to preschool. I left the youngest home with my quivering mass of hubs, so I took my time and pondered the rain drenched pavement stretched between the preschool door and the parking lot.

Oh man. There were giant, bloated worms everywhere. I stepped over the first couple. Memories of lopsided walks to school flooded my senses. Buckled sidewalks, one foot on the curb and one foot in the gutter. Rainbow swirls of motor oil traces in the runoff. The stuttering of a small rock launched ahead by a scooping kick. And the gross-out thrill of seeing night crawlers, lying bloated on the sidewalk.

At some formative point in my childhood, I read a book where some kids dared each other to eat a worm a day for a month. I think. Um, ew. Recalling this double dog dare today brought a queasy tremor - I am not Fear Factor material for sure.

I got back to my car, and dropped my keys before I could get inside. As I leaned over and reached to retrieve them, I noticed a particularly fat one undulating towards me. I poked at it for a minute, and then drove away, awash in rainy day memories.