Sick

Jun. 3rd, 2010 05:46 am
ysonesse: (Default)
[personal profile] ysonesse
(First posted on Runaway Tales:  Pickle #4)


December 17, 2010:


Puking and pregnancy are supposed to come in the morning, but it’s late afternoon! Everything was groovy when it came to your poor Mom’s digestive system; I thought “Hey, maybe I’ll never get sick!”  Because the nausea train doesn’t stop at every station (your grandmother-to-be claimed she never got sick during her first pregnancy [Auntie Allyson was a uterine guru]…but dear Mom was a gastrointestinal terror, and now I guess you inherited that wicked ability). So I ditched work early, rushed home and flopped into bed. Then I ran into the bathroom and…well, barfed. Ten minutes of that unpleasantness followed by more bed flopping, then at some point I got hungry and forced myself to eat dry noodles and oolong tea. But you have funny tastes (glazed donuts: yay!, wheat spaghetti: boo!)…so you aren’t fond of noodles, and perhaps oolong tea is too harsh…so I got knocked into the bathroom once again.

I lost track of time; when your Dad wandered into the bathroom during another episode, I almost threw up on his cargo pants! Bless him…your father dropped onto cold linoleum and sat with me. “Can I do anything?”  

I snuggled against him. “All I really want is a nap.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Are we getting old too fast?”

“Why, because you’ve got evening sickness and I’ve got a headache?”

“Just a sign of our lives changing, I guess.”

“Obviously.”

You decided to give an opinion via stomach gurgling. Either that means you don’t think we’re old, or you just wanted to chime in for no obvious reason. Anyway, we laughed, because it was random and silly. We sat for I don’t know how long…on that cold floor, my head on your Dad’s shoulder, his arm wrapped around my shoulders. Eventually your Dad spoke up. “Wouldn’t it be more comfortable in bed?”

“Better than falling asleep in here.”

He stood up, then managed to pull me up off the floor. “Need me to carry you in there?”

“I can stagger in holding your arm.”

“Just like the night we might have conceived the kidlet.”

“I don’t remember that…” Really, I don’t, so never ask me about that night! (Would you really want to hear about your parents’ sex life? God, who does?!)