I’m sick. I knew it yesterday at 3am when Gigi came sobbing into my room. I pulled her into bed with me, all warm and snuggled against my chest. Then she looked up at me with her big brown eyes, her face lit by the glow of the charging laptop on my night stand, and sneezed a ball of mucus into my open mouth.
I swallowed it, as a knee jerk reaction, but spent the next hour trying to induce vomiting and swishing peroxide.
It was too late. I woke up that morning feeling as though I’d been hit in the face with a shovel and my left eye was caked shut.
Usually how this works is, Gigi and Wyatt get super sick, I spend every waking hour giving them Sprite, cleaning up puke, keeping fevers down, and trying, almost always unsuccessfully, to keep Jude quarantined and germ free. Oh and also fruitlessly teaching them how to blow their noses. (Why is it so hard to blow out? The inability to grasp that must be genetic, Andy doesn’t know how to blow his nose either. I know.)
And then, once they are on the mend and back to their old energetic, take no prisoners, rip a beating heart from your chest selves, I get sick.
Not this time. Yesterday, I came home from a morning work obligation and collapsed next to Gigi in bed, sick in unison; snotty, achy, our limbs sore for no good reason other than the fact they are attached to our bodies. After a few hours, our fevers align, much like I assume our periods will, leaving Andy fucked 5 days a month.
It was the kind of sick that had me too ill to wear my contacts, but wearing my glasses was even more impossible, lest they dare to touch the skin on my face. The body retching cough, while productive, rendered me incapable of keeping a tampon in my body, no matter how hard my lazy ass kegel muscles squeezed in protest. I was left horizontal and blind, balancing on a thick maxi pad, or as I like to call it, Helen Keller sick.
My mom came over to check on things, and when she asked me how I felt, all I could do was emit a low pitched gurgle, so she took the boys back to her house to play, and gave the remote to Gigi, who has perfect vision and was still capable of lying in bed watching every episode of BackyardSunnyPatchdouchbagFranklins, allowing me not even one single moment of listening to Real Housewives of Anywhere. In cycles of shivering and sweat, I slipped in and out of Nyquil consciousness.
Suddenly, Andy ran into the room, I had no idea what time it was, I usually judge the time of day by whether or not Ellen had aired yet, but Gigi wasn’t having it. It felt too early for him to be there.
I looked vaguely where I assume he was probably standing.
Why are you home?
We were talking on the phone and all of a sudden you stopped talking and started making this weird choking noise.
I must have fallen asleep. You thought I was choking? Why wouldn’t you call 911, you work 45 minutes away?
I didn’t think you were dying, I just-
Awww, you wanted to come home and take care of me. You love me. You think I’m pretty and you want to kiss me.
Honestly, you look like Gollum, or a really gross pirate, but yes, I’ll take care of you.
Because the fact is, no matter how many times he rolls his eyes or shakes his head at me, taking care of me when I’m sick is his favorite. It’s the only time he doesn’t have to wrestle me for the upper hand, which, while totally an aphrodisiac, is a welcome vacation when one of us is normal looking and the other is bleeding on a puppy pad like a stuck pig with green booger crusted eyelashes.
Do I really look disgusting?
No, not really. You’re as pretty as the day I married you.
Jesus Andy, you have horrible taste in women.