Today I signed paperwork. I handed sheets of paper over. I gave Isobel a banana and some stickers and plunked her down to be silent. I smiled. I thanked. I didn’t celebrate.

I should be celebrating.

Today was the day that my separation agreement got finalized and filed in court.

I don’t have to go back again, unless one of us takes the other back, in the hopes of changing or enforcing something we’ve agreed to.

I don’t have to scramble through my wardrobe for something that is smaller than a size 1 from my corporate days - since everything I wear now is by no means anything professional enough to wear in a court room (and I’m wearing smaller than a 0).

I don’t have to arrange babysitting for ‘hopefully only a couple of hours’ or take Isobel with me, looking pristine, and stop her from doing anything to mess that up on the way to and during proceedings.

I feel like I should breathe a huge sigh of relief cuz now, it’s done.

But like, I guess that means it’s done, right?

I’ve never thought about that much without anger in my heart. I’ve pretty much always been angry.

But I’m not, right now. And so in writing these lines, I started pondering that sentence, "It’s done, now."

I’m done thinking about it now. We’ll just add that to the list of ‘do not go there.’

Isobel woke up this morning at 5:30am.

I brought her to my bed to lie down with me, something I’ve been willing to do for the last week a couple of times since she typically will fall back asleep for an hour and then ask to go back in her own crib.

Today was not a day for that.

She’s just finishing her 17th cold in 18 months. Which means she’s been extraordinarily whiney and tired. She’s even napped a couple of times - during the day.

Most of her colds have been followed up by an ear infection, which with antibiotics leads to a bleeding, raw diaper rash. That gets infected, too and then I’ve got a toddler with a yeast infection.

Think of how your last yeast infection made you feel and add in being two and having a diaper in the way of semi-discreet scratching, leg crossing or chair humping - you know, whatever quells the itch for a few moments. It ain’t pretty on Isobel.

So this morning, she wanted water, gulped it. Fell asleep for all of about 10 minutes, cuddled up with me drifting off beside her - we reverse spoon, each with one arm around the other. It’s kind of cute.

We both woke up when she threw up all over both of us. Didn’t even sit up to do it, choking on the water that refused to stay down. Good thing I just washed the sheets, pillows and duvet, I thought.

Yes, that was sarcastic.

This happened five more times over the next three hours. Then she seemed to be feeling a little better so after asking her permission, I popped in a video and turned her crib for easy viewing. She went in it and I got to go downstairs with the baby monitor for a half smoke.

Not a peep uttered, but when I came back into the apartment, the stench hit me.

Now, both ends had been involved in what can only be described as a violent refusal to maintain hydration.

She was pale, shaking and the smelliest she’s ever been in her life. One diaper change and three more vomitisodes later, she’s cuddled on my lap at the computer, asking for toast. So I made it and she refused it.

Oh, flu, how I hate when you come to roost in Isobel. This is the second time that you’ve brought down your reign and her guts just cannot handle it. And my sense of compassion gets a little knocked out by the overwhelming, ‘oh shit, this is so gross,’ that comes with being around sickies.

She started passing out on my lap, full-on bent in half. And drank some more water, not listening to me when I said to slow down, to not gulp, to take little sips. And then came vomit baths numbers 10, 11 and 12. And liquid diaper number two.

By now, 10:30am, she’s sleeping in her crib, resting for what I’m sure will be more abdominal aerobics. This never happens - even when fevered to 103 degrees - her sleeping it off or even just lying down quietly.

So what’s the point of this story, besides to graphically scar you and incite, “Oh, I’m sorry, I hope she feels better soon”s?

To let you know not to come visit our place, cuz damn, it sure smells like shit and puke in here.