My husband rocks.
Yesterday afternoon I developed a lovely shade of fever that I am still trying to get rid of--in time for our bought and paid for date tonight, no less. The fever broke around 2 am and stayed away until late morning when it felt the need to bathe me in it's achy warmness once again. Of course, around the time it broke my stomach decided to rebel against whatever food was being digested inside it. At sixish, I tossed my cookies.
Needless to say I was not looking forward to raising my son today. But unbeknownst to me, while I slept, my husband got him up, dressed, fed, and ready to face the day. He took him to work for the morning--a definite benefit of being employed at a church where people generally do not scoff at children. He came home about midday and fed the boy lunch. He even dealt with the blood that started pouring out of Garrett's mouth when he unsuccessfully attempted to ride the dog. Of course, I hauled my feverish lazy behind out of bed when the toddler's crying lasted longer than normal. I tried not to breathe on the bleeder for fear that he would catch the fever. Although, truthfully, I'm fairly certain that I have whatever he had earlier in the week, minus the diarrhea. Praise God!
My fever is down in the low 99's now and I haven't tried to upchuck since this morning so I think I will at least try to go to dinner and a comedian. But for today, my husband wins the "Dad of the Day" award for taking on the role of Mr. Mom while his wife fevered and snoozed and wretched. It's days like these when true love shines. I look at myself in the mirror and think that no one, in his right mind, would love someone so putrid, so generally ickified. But Troy just looks at me and says, "You look like death warmed over. It's kind of cute."
Aw. And they lived happily every after.