It's a good thing I fell asleep right after cooking and eating a large dinner on Saturday. That way I could be well rested when Simon woke me up at 5:30 a.m. Confused initially, I eventually made out that he was sitting just outside my bedroom door, in a little hallway by the bath, in a pool of technicolor vomit. The stench was unbearable as was the thought about cleaning it up. Simon was a bit stunned too. Poor thing. He was so apologetic as he climbed into our bed, requiring lots of comfort.
John got up to help me and was such a sport about wiping sick off the walls, which is pretty unprecedented. And he fixed us all a lovely breakfast of the best pancakes I have ever eaten, graced by a sides of sausage patties and fluffy scrambled eggs.
For the most part, John and I spent our day cleaning up after each of Simon's episodes. I lost track at some point. Simon was depleted, but he did manage to watch the entire Super Bowl from his "nest" on the couch. At some point, we took advantage of my parents' generosity. They offered to watch the boys while John and I snuck off to Lund's.
While negotiating the very busy parking lot at the grocery store, I noticed one of my car's wheels made a horrible noise. Thinking it was ice, I made a note to check when we finally found a parking spot. But, it was worse than ice. I had a big flat tire. On, it bears mentioning, the second coldest day of the year. Could the day get any worse?
John and I did our grocery shopping, planning the week's menu as we combed each aisle. Then, John—my hero—removed the flat and installed the very meager spare tire. On our drive home, we noticed Tires Plus was open so we dropped off the car to be repaired. My dad picked us and the groceries up. Safe at home, my mother—because she is so caring and thoughtful (read sarcasm)—said, "Aren't you thankful it didn't happen with the boys in the car?" The thought never occured to me. Don't get me wrong—I'm glad they were safe at home! Why does she say things like that? Things that I can't help but read as less than subtle digs at me and my character and my ability to function as an adult and a mother. Why can't my mother say, "How awful for you. I'm so sorry these things are happening to you today. Is there anything I can do to help make your crappy day better?" And if I tell her how much her comment bothers me and on how many different levels, she'll get defensive or accuse me of pitying myself.
She makes me very angry.
And, I warned you. This is my therapy blog.
Because I was wrung out from wiping up vomit and doing endless loads of laundry just to stay ahead of the next vomit load, and because my mother demanded so much of my attention that I had a hard time giving my attention to my sick child, all I wanted to do was hide. No longer feeling on top of the world as I had the day before, zipping around my kitchen cooking great food for my family, I started to spiral downward emotionally. John and I begged out of the Super Bowl party I had been anticipating for a month and hunkered down with the kids, which isn't a half-bad way to spend a Sunday. Surrounded by those who truly love and don't judge you.
I love my John and my Simon and my Winston.
Speaking of Winston. He's become quite a card shark. Someone at DC taught him "Garbage," an easy and fun game to learn. Thank goodness for his abiding passion though. As long as someone played cards with him, he didn't seem to notice that Simon was barfing all over the house or getting tons of attention.
Some cardinals are at play outside the window where I'm blogging. Three males, who appear to be chasing each other, and a female. You go, girl!
No comments:
Post a Comment