Feminism and the Housewife

I have the flu.  So does hubby.  Normally, that would not slow me down.  I have an incredible talent for getting sick when no one is available to help me out, in any way, at all.  This week I picked the only Saturday in memory my hubby had to attend classes all day.  This was not like the epic stomach flu I had a few weeks ago, whereas, retching and fainting, I not only goot the kids to their various schools and activities, but also fed and cared for them quite well.  This was an exhaustion flu.  I had to give.  I slept all day, finding out in my 1 hour awake periods that the children can make toast.  And jam.  3/4 of a large loaf of bread later, mostly consumed in the living room, I am now faced with rapture-like levels of destruction.  And all this when my vacuum is on loan to a cousin on the other side of the city.  I can weather sickness, filth, and childcare.  It takes a lot to knock me down.  I am, in some dubious way, a take-no prisoners, ultra-capable Mother.  And when the chips are down, I can really shine.
Last night with hubby, both of us dying slowly, we watched "I am Legend".  Normally I avoid scary movies, and most probably would not find this scary at all, but I had nightmares of stop-motion and cgi monsters throughout my fitful night's sleep.  This afternoon, in one of my hours up, I flopped on the couch and sent the kids outside to play.  I heard scuttling, barely audible, and blew it off as leftover movie audio-hallucinations.  (I really dislike scary movies, especially when I watched the ring at a friends house behind an old well.)  The skittering became more prominent, and I was faced with that moment when it became apparent my ears were not deceiving me.  That moment of clarity where your brain says, in order,  Cgi Monstrosity!  Rat! Skunk!  Prowler!  Hubby? (Not logical, this brain of mine.)  And then I saw it.  An adorable, tiny squirrel, discarded apple core in it's mouth, staring at me from the midst of my yarn corner.  Picture a kitten happily playing with a yarn ball.  Now picture a terrified squirrel tangled up in no less than thirty yarn balls.  Feminism be damned, I ran for the nearest set of testicles (some neighbor guy) who chased the vagrant vermin from my home.  I think.  Either that or critter is skulking under the china cabinet, where he will happily breed his family living off the discarded crusts of my own brood.  Fine.  Just keep the floor clean.

                                        I swear it looked just like this.   Damn you, Will Smith!