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I'm lying in bed, half worried to death because I cannot fix breakfast for my family.

I feel like the Salvation Army is doing a street march in my head. I also have a bout of diarrhea that came knocking minutes after going to bed.

In the meantime, my 7-year-old triplets are downstairs, simulating a war zone in the living room. I quickly grab my phone to check what time it is. Sh*t, it's 11 a.m.. I'd planned to call my GP at 7. The last time I checked the time was 6:57 a.m.

I call Dr. Cy, then I call out to the trio. They come rushing to my bedroom, and my son blurts out, "Mom, I'm hungry." I direct Liz, the eldest, to go to the kitchen and get soda and cookies. They hug me for being such a nice mom, for allowing them to have an unhealthy breakfast without them begging.

I call a cab and then pick a dress because I only have the strength to wear one piece of clothing. Then I slip my feet into sandals and use the last ounce of strength remaining to brush my teeth and comb my hair. As I leave, they call out, "Mom, don't forget ice cream. You promised." I nod and slip out.

I must look like Bloody Mary because my GP takes me in quickly. He tests for malaria and I test positive. He immediately puts me on a drip and gives me a shot.

"You should be glad it hit your stomach and not your brain," my GP tells me.

"It must have known I need a working brain to raise three young children," I retort. I don't allow my mind to think what would have happened if I had cerebral malaria. I probably would've been chasing my children with a water gun in the living room.

He keeps me for another half hour, after which he sends me home recommending long rest and lots of fluids. I can take care of the fluids part; the long rest part, I'm not sure.

I am back at the war zone. "Mom, did you bring us ice cream?"

"I will buy ice cream when you tidy up the living room."

Oops, its 1 p.m., time for lunch. I call the pizza delivery guy, requesting five boxes.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

We shall live on pizza and French fries until I gain enough strength to be the bad momma again - the one who feeds her children half-cooked vegetables and bland oatmeal. Pizza arrives. They eat it with relish.

"Mom, you are the best in the whole wide world."

"Until I get better," I muse.

- Florence Kimani

Florence Kimani is a humor writer and blogger from Kenya. She writes satire, parodies and self-deprecating humor.