Two pairs of pants, four shirts, three sets of pyjamas, three towels, a set of sheets, and a couple of blankets, resulting in five loads of laundry. That was the casualty count from Beautiful Boy’s upset tummy bout on Wednesday evening. Poor little guy. He was boisterous and happy, with no fever. He didn’t seem to be feeling poorly at all.
Having requested assistance in cleaning up the mess on the sheets and bedding, and being told “I am quite capable of doing this without your help,” while I was struggling to clean the child while not spreading the spew any further than necessary, imagine the level of pleasantry in my attitude when I discovered that the bedding remained piled in a laundry basket, rather than in the washing machine, washing merrily away. Apparently, the part he was quite capable of was limited to removing the sheets from the mattress, and gosh, why would, should, or could I interpret that to mean that he would actually take the bedding downstairs, rinse off the chunks if necessary, transfer the bedding to the washing machine, and turn it on
So, I muttered something and threw the sheets in the machine, without rinsing off the chunks. Later, I speculated out loud as to whether the washing machine can handle chunks that size (moderately chewed grape halves), to which I was reprimanded for not knowing better, that one should remove the large debris before putting the soiled items in the machine. Okay, I knew that, and yes, I was being a bit lazy in not rinsing the sheets, but I was miffed that I had to contend with the sheets at all. So, I nearly exploded, because, hello Why is he reprimanding me, when he implied that he would take care of it in the first place To which he said, “Don’t even go there…” Which nearly sent me ballistic, as I was already on the verge of explosion. As if there were any remote way that I somehow might have shirked on my responsibilities? I think he uses that “Don’t even…” as some kind of a distraction tactic, because there are no grounds! Ever!
Because… I do most things related to keeping up a household (laundry, cooking, cleaning, shopping). He takes out the garbage. Okay, he does the gadget-centric tasks that spring up now and then, but I figure those get counterbalanced by the computing/techno things that spring up which I take care of. Therefore, in my view, things are grossly out of balance, so yes, it takes only the most miniscule hint of criticism or finger pointing to send me postal. Oh, so frustrating!
Thursday morning, he carefully inquires as to whether I will be able to make a doctor’s appointment for Beautiful Boy. I try to be calm and not get frustrated. I don’t know why he thinks that going to the doctor will make a difference in how fast he gets better. It’s an upset tummy. It will pass. He has no symptoms of anything serious. I just don’t see how a doctor’s visit will be helpful. I would have to keep him home until the time of the appointment, which wouldn’t allow me to get any work done, and then we’d go to the appointment and the doctor would most likely tell me to watch his fluids so that he doesn’t get dehydrated, and wait it out, which is what I am already doing. After which I’d have to drop him off at daycare, where he will cry and cry because that is what he does when I’m the one who drops him off, especially when he’s had a long and leisurely morning with me, so then I will cry on my way back home, because it breaks my heart when he does that. And then I’ll only be able to get a couple of hours of work done at best. So, all in all, a doctor’s visit would cause me a great deal of unnecessary stress.
I blew off the doctor appointment suggestion and proceeded with my work day. Things at the office started to get some resolve, although new things cropped up to keep me incredibly busy. All these things, so that I hrumph about in a snarly funk for a while, but then I notice a blazing blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds and it instantly washes my ire away. It’s amazing how that happens. A small part of me wanted to stay miffed a bit longer, because I wanted to attempt to express all that frustration to Mr. Gadget, but I was glad for the healing sunbreak. Also, he called and said something funny, to diffuse things, because, after all, we needed to be made up by the evening if we were to stick to our TTC schedule. So I forgave him.
Friday has arrived, and with it a nauseous headache. Maybe you’re pregnant, he says, puffing out his chest proudly. Mister Super Sperm. Right. Symptoms after less than twelve hours I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ve even ovulated yet, although we should be in that window right now. There have been no signs. The headache may be hormonal, so things may be on the verge. Who knows. All this elevated emotion of the past few days is no doubt exacerbated by hormone changes taking place. I should cut myself some slack and try not to get so worked up over every little thing, even though I do think my recent frustrations are justified!
Meanwhile, how thankful I am for a venue in which I can ramble on and on and on and get it all out. A nice long whinge now and then does a body good.
