Running for the hills

Eliza has some undefined illness that has her spiking high fevers, Barney the cat is on fluids and kitty Zofran because of incessant horquature. The baby is brewing her umpteenth cold. The husband is uber-busy at work. I am stretched so thin between work, sick-creature care and household stuff that tonight, in karate, I was happy we did a long core workout because it meant I could lie down.
Still, hope is on the horizon — I syringed some baby food into the cat 32 minutes ago and he still hasn’t thrown it up, which is a new personal best for him today. The big girl at least does not have strep or pneumonia (although this is a double-edged sword in that at least those, we could throw some pills at), and cannot be sick forever.
And tomorrow I have to/get to go to New York City (for those of you playing along, reason 645,876,412,896 why I will never leave this job: I *have* to go to New York several times a year). I have enough time between various appointments to spend some time at the MOMA’s Edvard Munch exhibit and the Union Square Market aka FOOD PORN.
(Ooh, digression: A recent awkward moment came when I was talking to an acquaintance about a very upscale workout facility and referred to the place as “gym porn” which said acquaintance seemed to misunderstand as “Jim porn”. Oops. For the record: NO. That is not what I meant.)
Anyway, I was feeling guilty about my little field trip before because not-onerous is my job?, but now I also feel kind of bad because I’m dumping this whole mess on Jim. I’m going to have to pony up for a really good souvenir, I think.