I feel bad, both literally and figuratively, which does not make for a very happy household. It is summer, a bit muggy and The Saint is getting uncomfortable as the twins have apparently set up a beach volleyball court in her uterus (don't even ask where they got the sand - we don't know). I want to do everything I can to make her comfortable and keep this a relatively easy pregnancy but we have encountered a big problem:
I am sick with a summer cold of epic proportions.
Actually, I think it might be the Bubonic Plague or something similar because I can't shake it. Yesterday was the worst: it felt like an elephant was sitting on my head, using its trunk to burrow deep inside my brain and shoot a gross substance I won't even begin to describe out of my nose. All.Damn.Day.
But The Saint is still pregnant and I want to take care of her. I did manage to make dinner last night but it was not the chicken dinner I know she wanted. Instead, we had scrambled eggs and toast since I figured this was a good substitute: if you can't have chicken, have something laid by a chicken. (And I know there is a good joke there, but this damn cold medicine has me all fogged up.)
While the eggs were good, and more than enough for me, I know it wasn't enough for The Saint and the two chorus line members in her belly. It also doesn't help that there was a sea of wadded up Kleenex on the living room floor driving her nuts but I wouldn't let her pick them up, lest she become infected as well. So I begrudgingly got up every hour or so to make what felt like a 30 mile trek to the garbage can to throw the little cotton germ bombs away, shuffling and snuffling the entire time.
The Saint was growing impatient but trying hard not to show it. This irritated me because I know she was right: I should have gone to the doctor by now. We spent a partially silent night together, complete with an exciting trip to the local drugstore for more cotton germ receptacles, something I am sure we will long for in the very near future. But now I am worried because if there are no timeouts during pregnancy...
...what does that mean for motherhood?
- The 2nd Mommy
Definitely no time-outs in motherhood. None. Nada. 24 hours, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year.
ReplyDeleteBut, it is more like a football game than a basketball game. There are some naturally slower points, and then a lot of running and pain.
There are timeouts, called grandma and grampa and aunt ______! Take advantage of those offers! There are also friends who miss having babies and would LOVE to provide a timeout for both you and the Saint! Get well soon!
ReplyDeleteAndrea
Just wait until sickness rages through a house of four...buy stock on kleenex now...and earplugs.
ReplyDelete