Who takes care of Mommy when Mommy’s sick? Bwahahahahahaha! Trick question!

Dear Hubby,

I just wanted to say that I’m so sorry you’re feeling soooo awful today. I can tell by the way you can barely lift the remote and how you make those moaning noises when you walk to the bathroom that you must be really truly sick. I’m so glad you are absolutely positively not attempting to help with anything around here today. Not in your fragile state.

I know exactly how you feel because that’s how I felt last week. Remember? My head felt like it was going to explode, my stomach felt like someone was stabbing it with daggers, and I could barely get out of bed. But alas, I took one for the team and toughed it out because the house would pretty much stop turning on its axis if I took a sick day?

I mean, the kids would have literally starved to death if I didn’t make a trip to the supermarket, right? Plus, you said you desperately needed more popcorn. Well, at least I wouldn’t have to carry Holden because he could just sit in the grocery cart the whole time, and the cart would act like a walker so I wouldn’t keel over, and if I broke out in the sweats again I could just lean up against the glass in the freezer section.

Of course, we were barely ten steps into the grocery store when Holden got this weird look on his face. What’s wrong buddy? I could barely get the words out before throw up began to pour out of his mouth. Like literally he was just sitting there with his mouth open and it was just pouring out like one of those F’ing stone lions that spits water in a fountain. Agggh, who turned the throw up faucet on??!!

It’s amazing how at that moment I suddenly forgot that I was on my deathbed and managed jump into superhero action. My first instinct was to put my hands out and catch the throw up. Awesome. And after he finally stopped, I couldn’t get him out of the cart because you need thumbs with biceps to unclick those seatbelts and I’ve got like ridiculously wimpy Urkel thumbs. Needless to say we left the store without buying a thing, so both kids ate expired Lean Cuisines for lunch. Which of course meant they didn’t eat a thing and turned into this later on.

So I did what any mother on her deathbed would do. I laid (lied??? lay???) down in the middle of the kitchen floor and let both kids crawl all over me like evil monkeys. I shit you not, I lay my cheek right there on the cold wood while they ate Cheerios off my butt.

And a half an hour later I finally convinced Holden to take a nap (roofies are awesome) and Zoey to sit on the couch and quietly watch whatever she F’ing wanted on the electronic babysitter (it’s not TV, it’s HBO) so I could go upstairs and lie down in bed and get some sleep. Or die. Either one sounded great.

ME: Oh thank God, my pillow.

Six seconds later.


Ordinarily I’d just shout at her to wipe and wash her hands and deal with the skid marks later, but her panicked screams weren’t coming from the bathroom. They were coming from the living room. Well, to be more precise from three different places on the living room carpet. And I don’t give a rat’s ass how sick you are, diarena on the carpet cannot wait for you to feel better.

Anyways honey, I could go on and on explaining to you how I pushed through being sick that day— how many loads of laundry I did, how I threw up in my mouth a little because Holden threw up in my mouth a little, and how long I spent cleaning vomit out of the cracks in our wood floors with an old toothbrush. But I’ll save that story for another time when you’re feeling better.

For now, pleeease do not get up and do anything at all and make sure you get as much rest and TV-watching as humanly possible. I’ll be upstairs to help wipe your ass and give you a sponge bath later, just as soon as I change the outgoing message on your cell phone to a Celine Dion song.

Your very adoring nursemaid, uhh, I mean wife

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Tags: letter, sick mommy

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