On Wednesday night, Chaos woke me up with the phrase every parent hates: Mommy, I throwed up.
Then he used the only phrase I hate more: Mommy- I didn't make it to the bathroom...
So, after tossing a sick six-year old in the tub (at THREE IN THE MORNING) I cleaned his room and an hour later got back in bed.
At five, my husband yells upstairs: Morgana- you've got to get up! He's throwing up!
*double face palm* Yeah. Hubby doesn't deal with "teh sick" very well- no matter who it is, he panics. The only good news with it being Chaos sick was that it wasn't the Hubby being sick. THAT is a Jabberwocky I hate facing down.
I clean again...head back to bed. And you've guessed it... repeat performances every hour or so until I get up for the day.
Hubby was nice enough about it once kidlet's stomach settled. Kiddo slept. I was sent back to bed. Hubby and Doc watched Price is Right re-runs that we taped.
I woke up a couple of hours later feeling better. Since Chaos was feeling ok, I ran out to the store to pick up some soup and stuff. It was cold.
The rest of the day was pretty boring; TV watching, cleaning, kids in bed... Hubby and I stayed up to watch a movie.
I went to bed and felt my ribs ache. I'm no stranger to bronchial infections so I found my inhaler *just in case*.
I couldn't sleep. I tossed. I turned. It was too hot. It was too cold. My bed was uncomfortable.
I finally get up to stretch--- and then it hits.
Yeah. I had "teh sick".
Hours later I had an enforced day off. I was weak. I was sweaty. I could barely lift my glass to take sips of water. Hubby was truly panicked. Then he accused me of whining. ME? WHINE? Holy crud- PukeMan... I NEVER whine.
Next day I woke up feeling, not better... but better. I could move again. I wasn't nauseated non-stop. I was still tired, still sore, still weak. But, it was an obvious improvement.
Then I chanced a look outside. Hubby was home from work awfully early. (He's on nights this week.) My Mommy-senses went all tingly.
Sure enough... Hubby's got "teh sick".
He called me whiny. Let me tell you about Hubby's brand of "neediness":
-"Can you rub my back?"
-"Can I get some more medicine?" (And no- he can't. He's on medication that means NO cold meds)
-"I'm gonna be sick..."
-"Can you make me some soup..."
-"Are there any popsicles..."
-"I didn't make it to the bathroom..."
-"Don't eat near me." (Umm... the dining room is all of TWO FEET from the living room.)
-"Can you keep the kids quiet?"
My response to him: "Can't you just go to bed and stop leaving your whiny ass prints on the couch?"
Sigh. There's a special place in hell (somewhere near Rachel Ray, I'm certain) for people who beat their sick husbands silly with cast iron skillets. And since I have no desire to end up anywhere near there (or near Rachel Ray for eternity), I'll put the frying pan away and just smile and nod. And go get him another popsicle. And fluff his pillows. And adjust the volume on the television...AGAIN.
And count down the minutes until he's well.
(And, for what it's worth, he's feeling a little better now. So I suppose I should stop picking on him in my prose.)