Continuation from yesterday's posting (see post immediately below this one): And Now . . . The Rest of the Story (RIP, Mr. Harvey)
I left the computer for (what was intended to be) a brief moment of comforting one of the twins while he was paying homage to the Great White Porcelin God. However, in the midst of rubbing his back and wiping his face as he hurled projectile masses of unknown constituents into the depths of clear blue waters, the phone rang. I let it go to voicemail, considering the situation and the fact that the phone was in the living room.
Then, it rang again . . . three times, and stopped. No voice mail alert this time. Moments later, as Thing Two is finishing up his latest scene of Howdy Doody Hurly, it rang again. I ran (ok, sluggishly sloshed) into the living room , open the phone to hear my oldest son's dimished voice on the other end.
"Mom, I'm sick! Can you pick me up?"
"I'll be right there. Can you put the nurse on the phone, please."
I spoke with her to see if anyone had reported any cases of the H1N1 flu at the highschool. Luckily enough, though, she said, "No. However, we do have a lot of kids out with a stomach bug."
"Yeah! We're not infested with a rare mutated pig/bird/human virus. It's just a bug! So, I'm relieved in that sense, but still weighed down with the fact that now all four of my boys are sick, and I'm playing the part right along side them.
I vaguely remember driving to his school to get him. But, obviously, we made it home. Just as I'm walking through the door, the hubby calls chipper as a squirrel in a pile of nuckin' futs to ask, "How's your day?"
"Well, Captain Obvious (or in more honest terms Captain Oblivious), it's the best day I've ever had in my whole entire life!"
At least that's the sarcastic thought that immediately responded in my mind. But, being the good wife that I am, I held my tongue, choked down my resentment for him never getting all these illnesses because he doesn't care for the kids while they're sick, and simply said, "It could be better."
This is when he proceeded to let me know that he can get off work early, so I can go get my car's registration renewed, then go to the grocery store. WTF?!?
Yah, I'm going to drag myself over to the DMV, wait for three hours for my stickers, and then drive 10 miles to the commissary, whip out my binder full of coupons and spend the next four hours getting food and toiletries for six people on an overall budget of $300. Then, after that, watch me as I pull a rabbit out of my a**.
"Remember when I told you this morning that I felt like I'd been hit by a train? Remember when you couldn't get in the shower on time, so you were late to work because I was spewing forth all my iniquities into your almighty reading station (sure you're just reading the articles)?"
"Really? It's that bad? I just have a bit of the sniffles and my throat hurt a little when I swallow. Hmmm." He so ecsentrically states.
I'm fuming mad at this point. Why don't they ever get it? Oh wait . . . I know why! It's because they witnessed the same "Super Mom" when they were growing up. They must think that moms have this sort of innate super power to keep going when their lungs are spewing copious amounts of substances that shoul never see the light of day, and they feel like they've been eaten alive by their own intestines.
We must press on! We must function normally! It seems to be some sort of inherent ability all those around us seem to think we possess, like a birthright fully engrained into all those furnishing a vagina. We must educated the ignorant (ok, every Harry Dick Tom) so that we, mothers, can finally get some rest when we're ailing.
So I hang up on him in a futile attempt to regain my composure so I can care for all the males lying around on the couch like the motionless sea lions of La Jolla Beach.
There I am, watching these pitiful creatures in their natural habitat, wanting me to wait on them hand and foot. I'm thinking to myself, "Wait a minute! I'm sick, too. Where's my Florence Nightengale?"
No doubt, though, I will continue to be the mother that I am, providing the much-needed nurturing that these poor, ailing guys could definitely use. Mommies, after all, can never get sick. So, I shall resume my motherly duties and get back to my crew.
It really helps to alleviate the frustrations by venting. Since I'm surrounded by a sea of testosterone, though, I must vent by writing.
Although, still physically ill, I feel much better, now. Writing is very therapeutic, and fits in like a glove with my strict budget.