3.07.2015

puke party.

My husband rarely gets a day off of work. Heck, he rarely gets the night off of work, seeing as how most nights he has more work to do once he gets home. We were all in desperate need for some family time and so he put in a request for some vacation days. We all had some big plans for those days but, naturally, that would be too easy. I spent Thursday in the emergency room after horrible stomach pain and endless puking and nausea. They thought it might be gallblader related so I got to experience a CT Scan and a good ol' ultrasound (which is basically like emotional warfare after having a baby pass in utero). Oh, and lots of drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. It ended up just being a terrible stomach bug, although I would like to eliminate the word "just" from that sentence in fear it might trivialize the sheer horror of the whole thing.

Anyway, I've been stuck in bed since. Which might sound ideal in all of those self-deprecating jokes about exhaustion and moms not having any alone time -- but in actuality, it's pretty torturous. It's the last way that I wanted to spend my husband's vacation days and I'm the last person who is just fine with sitting in bed looking for ways to pass the time. I'm basically sitting here gnawing on Saltines and thinking of all of the things I should be doing and all of the laundry that is inevitably piling up and all of the things my husband is doing wrong because if it's not exactly like how I do it, it's wrong. (I'm working on that last one.)

With my life at it's current state, right now, as it is, I don't welcome any downtime. Downtime equals time to think. I don't need any time to think right now. There's a greater chance I'll make it through 2015 with at least 25% of my sanity in tact if only I'm denied the time to think.

Oh, and did I mention that as my sweet, sweet husband and child were leaving the grocery store with Saltines and Gatorade for me in tow, they were rearended by some schmuck who didn't quite understand the point of a stop sign (and, like, how did he not realize what precious cargo was in that car he rammed into?! That's my baby boy in that car, you putz!). Because that happened, and with a world war raging in my stomach, I got to join in the deliberation over cars and insurance and car seats and rental cars via text message because neither Ethan nor my husband are allowed anywhere remotely near me due to my likely irrational but still totally justified fear that one of them will catch this bug, too.

I really don't "do" sick very well. I don't do "downtime" very well. I don't do "just relax" very well because somehow I was born without the ability to know how to truly relax. So, if you need me, I'll be here, sitting in bed prepping Ethan's birthday party decorations for his party three months from now.

Oh. By the way. I started writing this post at two o'clock. I didn't finish because (sigh) Ethan puked.

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