Sick

I could make many excuses for my absence.

But I won’t. I’ll just tell you about the last few days I’ve spent IN HELL.

This week, the one we’re finishing right now apparently, with a so-called “holiday weekend,” this week has been a really really bad week. I’m not sure what has been worse: holding my squirming, crying, pissed off toddler, trying lamely to comfort him when all he wants is BOOB mom, come on just a little BOOB, but I am under strict orders not to whip it out as often as he’d like because I might pass out from the dehydration. Or spending all night running back and forth from bed to bathroom wishing I had a bedpan and crossing my fingers I won’t make a mess in the bed if I sleep right through but kinda wishing I could just sleep right through it because the pain in my gut is so excruciating when it wakes me up at 3 am that I’d rather just not be here for it and stopping short on more than one occasion from asking my husband, “Could you get me more pedialyte...and maybe some dry toast...oh and could you pick me some depends while you’re out?”

Yeah, that’s what 5 days with a stomach flu will do to you. I figure if I finally break down and really do ask for the Depends ya might as well just take me out back and shoot me and save us all some trouble. It’s better then letting the nurses try to stick me with needles again ‘cause oh was that FUN with a capital F.

Punkin thinks his mommy is one cruel b&%ch for sleeping in the guest room all week, never playing with him, and taking away his all-access pass to Boobyland (and even if I tried to explain that it was really the mean doctor that took away his all-access pass to Boobyland, and that I didn’t want to keep him up all night with my tossing and turning and stomping in and out of the room each time my tummy gurgled, I don’t think he’d really forgive me. Not really. Especially since it looks like today, when his tummy gurgled, Oh did it feel not so good down there, no sirree. And you know who he can blame for that? Oh yeah, yours truly).

The funny thing about all this (and yeah, there is a funny thing - just one though) is that I don’t really care that I spent my birthday curled in a ball in bed with a 102 fever and drenched in sweat, because you know it wasn’t really my birthday. Nope. As far as I’m concerned my birthday just hasn’t happened yet. Of course, it would have been nice to go to Cirque du Soleil like Veggie had planned ‘cause he’s a freakin awesome husband, but I’m just not going to think about it ‘cause what’s the point?

And I do have to hand it to Veggie for being the World’s Greatest Husband this week (sorry ladies, but he is and he’s not giving up the title any time soon). Not only did he take time off work to take care of me and Punkin, but he also arranged for friends and babysitters to come over when he had to work, changed my sheets when I soaked them with fevered sweat, scrubbed the tub so I could safely soak in it after 4 days of stinking up the house, made me jello and soup broth and dry toast and pedialyte cocktails, woke up in the middle of the night to rub my back and put me in bed after I’d collapsed in a miserable lump on the bathroom floor, and never once complained. Not once.

Being sick can actually be rather freeing. For once I don’t care that the house is a mess, there’s laundry to be done and a fridge full of rotting food. Maybe I should get sick more often.

Or not.