Some days you feel like squashed bread.

I peeled myself from the mattress this morning with all the enthusiasm of a sloth on tranquilizers. Due to a snoot full of slime, my night was spent in and out of consciousness, though I'd hardly call it sleep. My throat is scratchy and feels thick and sticky, like someone force fed me Play-Doh during one of my less conscious moments. And in this house, one never knows.

Moving in slo-mo, I plod down the hall with but one goal, clinging to this one glimmering ray of hope to save me from collapse - the coffee pot. A nice, hot cup of joe will melt away the slime. Or at least give me the energy to make it to the Kleenex box.

But the baby birds immediately notice the mama bird is up and about the nest and their requests for breakfast do not wait for coffee to brew. They land on me without taking heed of my sad state and waste no time placing their orders. But it is all mud inside my ears. I mutter something to the tune of "wait" and find the nearest spot to land. Brother asks, "What are we going to do today, Mom?"

Well, let's see, Son. Today we're going to search online for a very simple illustrated how-to guide that will explain, in very clear, easy-to-understand-second-grader language, how you can cut open Mommy's head, allowing it to drain and thus releasing this vice-like pressure on her oh-so-tired brain. And then, perhaps we will go to the park.

I spot a bottle of saline drops I used on Baby the night before for "Little Noses". Though my nose most definitely does not fall into this category, I don't have a water pik to shove up my beak and clean things out and this seems like the next best thing. After a few bungled attempts, I finally figure out the trick to leaning my head back just enough to get the saline where it's supposed to go without having it trickle down the back of my throat. This is what I've been subjecting my poor, ailling children to?! The saline gets things moving, but brings little relief, and all I want to do is whisper sweet nothings to my coffee cup and go back to bed.

But, no. I choose instead to take all three of my children on a shopping trip to the Wal-Mart Super-scary-Center. Makes perfect sense, doesn't it? I mean, when you're feeling as though a train has run you over, backed up and run you over again, why wouldn't you want to take three over-active children to the world's largest mass marketer of goods and beat back large, angry mobs to forage for food and stuff?

My underlying motive was to buy all the good legal drugs I could get my hands on. We just happened to need milk and bread, too.

But SuperCenters are not nice to sick people. And after an hour of filling one cart to the brim with groceries and the latest and greatest cold remedies, I felt as though I needed to be hospitalized with a good morphine drip. I get home, unload the trunk, only to find my bread mangled under a bag of canned goods.

Squashed bread.