I'm starting to feel a little better. It's only taken 3 whole days for this to happen. So much for my 24-hour bug theory. And then I had a HORRIBLE thought today..what if this is morning sickness?? I've never had morning sickness--nothing beyond a wave of nausea here and there, anyway. Can it really be that different with baby #5?
I have mixed feelings about starting to feel better. The obvious...it's great to be able to function again and actually get some things done. But I'm actually a little pissy that I'm starting to feel better now that Joe is starting vacation. So, there will be no recuperating time or being pampered a bit (which, if you know my husband, you know that's kind of a joke anyway.) He'll be the first to tell you that his bedside manner lacks quite a bit.
I'm on a rampage tonight for moms. Moms who don't get a break, who don't even have the luxury of being sick and getting the rest needed to feel better. Um...like me. A little selfish, yes. I am probably pretty guilty right now of feeling sorry for myself, but I'm gonna go with it for a minute since it's the ONLY "me" time I've had since getting the Bubonic Plague on Thursday morning.
I don't count laying on the couch while my kids take turns coming up to me and saying things like, "Why aren't you walking at all?" or "Why do you keep taking naps every day?" *slap*
Not really. I didn't have the energy to even scold them for asking. Plus, they're just kids. They don't get it. Their every need is met, usually upon the first request.
Now, my husband, on the othe rhand, may get the full brunt of my fury tonight. Any guy readers out there? I have some advice for you. Don't tell your wife that you love her and feel so sorry that she feels so sick, yet leave her alone all day while she lays on the couch and contemplates writing her last will and testament. Certainly, don't do it 3 days in a row. Doing that will earn you one of a few things (or ALL for the especially lucky): the silent treatment, a verbal smackdown, or some chilly nights, if you know what I mean. Honestly, I don't take away one iota from the man's responsibilities and his need to go out in the workforce everyday to bring home the bacon (and this is speaking solely to those people in my situatiuon where the husband works outside the home and the wife stays at home...working harder. Ha Ha! Just kidding.) But seriously, a word to the wise...talk is cheap. You can tell her you care until you're blue in the face, but if you continually leave her alone, dying on the sofa, with children running all about, virtually unattended to...for 3 days straight...without so much as an attempt to make other arrangements, you can count on some venom coming your direction. At least that's my prediction.
Let me just pause for a commercial break right here. My husband, Joe, is truly a wonderful man. He's a great father, husband, and human being. But sometimes...I just have to vent, you know? Believe me, I am well aware that my life could be so much worse and that I, myself, have so many of my own faults, but since this is my blog, I'm going to air my thoughts. Joe will have to get his own blog to air mine.
Anyway. Here it is, 9:30 at night on Saturday, and I'm waiting for him to get home. I bathed the kids and put them all in bed--all while taking little breaks to sit or lay down--and now I'm waiting for him to bring me home something to eat. I haven't eaten much in the past 3 days and I cannot wait to sink my teeth into some Chicken Tortilla soup.
I promise there won't be too many more posts where all you read is my whining. Well, I'll try anyway. Can't promise.
But here's to all you single moms and moms whose husbands travel a lot or are overseas. I salute you! I don't know how you do it (but I get a pretty good idea with our family's current situation and my husband's horrid work schedule.) I truly admire you all-especailly if you are able to hold it together without exploding all over your spouse or kids.
And thank you for listening. I promise I'm usually a very warm and caring individual (well, at least I think so).