Remember how I said I wasn't going to write about bodily functions anymore? I lied. Well, sort of. This isn't about Elsa and Clio's bodily functions, but my own. Puking, specifically. I spent several hours last night engaged in this delightful activity, my stomach repeatedly, violently insisting on purging itself of its contents long after there was nothing left to purge. It was wretched. On the bright side: at least there was women's gymnastics to watch in between pukes. And the US kicked ass!
After the medal ceremony and some final, valedictory heaves, I basically lay in bed moaning for awhile, because I felt so completely awful -- aching, shaky, spent. Eventually I fell asleep. Today, fortunately, there's been no more puking. But lots of aching and nausea and feeling exhausted. As I write this, I am snacking on my children's Goldfish crackers, bringing my total caloric intake for the day up into the triple digits, I hope. (Another bright side: easy 2 pound crash diet!)
Seriously, though, what is the deal with parenting and getting sick? I think I have been sick more times in the past nineteen months than in the previous ten years of my life combined. Colds, stomach bugs, headaches, even pink eye once, for God's sake. And the girls don't even go to daycare! I take as good -- or better -- care of myself than ever in terms of diet and exercise, and the girls have been consistently sleeping through the night for almost a year, so it's not like sleep deprivation is the culprit. Has anyone else had this same experience? Maybe it's just the overall intensity of having to juggle so many things and be so "on" for the girls all the time. Or maybe I'm just getting old.
Alastair has also gotten sick quite a bit, too, though the lucky bastard always seems to get a milder version of whatever virus is sweeping through our household. He wasn't feeling well a couple of days ago -- nauseous, tired, etc. -- but he did NOT spend three hours praying to the porcelain god every twenty minutes. Now, of course, I'm just waiting for the inevitable: Clio is going to get sick (she always seems to catch stuff first), and then Elsa, though probably not as bad (like her Dad, she seems to get the "express" version of everything).
I suppose I should count my blessings. At least it's a weekend (what a way to spend a weekend!) and at least Alastair is here to help out. And at least 19-month olds are totally understanding and accommodating when you say stuff like, "mommy feels sick and is just going to lie here on the couch and sip ice water while daddy runs an errand. Can you two just play nicely with your blocks together for at least 30 minutes? And not whine for me to give you sips of my water? And fix yourselves some lunch if you get hungry? You're the best."
My apologies for such a lame and mopey post. I just can't bring myself to write up any amusing yet poignant anecdotes or shockingly profound musings on the nature of parenting. You know, like I usually do. But here: a cute picture of the girls to tide you over until such time as I don't feel like utter shite. Be well, my friends!
