Having a miserable sick husband has shown me just how uncharitable I can be.
The poor thing is desperately sick, searching for sympathy, and unfortunately for him - he is searching in all the wrong places. What has driven me to this cold dark place?
Kids.
When he came home at lunch today, sad and sorry and just wanting to reach for bed, I was doing some serious food processor/blender work to make the lunch orders of my screaming kids. A piece of vegemite toast upstairs in bed? You must be f***ing kidding me.
He retired to the lounge room where he thought he could unwind with some soothing newfolk music.
Umm ... SICK PEOPLE GO TO BED, THEY DO NOT RECREATE AS THOUGH THEY ARE LIVING IN INNER CITY STUDIO FLAT WITH NO CHILDREN.
Up the stairs he went ... miserably.
Lunches done, baby asleep, young lady amused at least momentarily, I ripped off the apron and grabbed the car keys to make the supermarket run. I popped my head in to see the man reclined on the bed, bathing in the gentle rays of the afternoon sunlight, perusing the latest Vanity Fair.
I took a deep breath and asked him if he was okay, or needed anything .... no thanks, he said weakly as though even that took more energy than he could really spare.
I threw an sandwich at him and left, desperately hoping that I could be sick too. How fun! No jobs, just bed and magazines for a few days.
In sickness and in health .... I shall remain the grumpy woman of the home. Oh dear. Hope I get some sleep soon so I can be less Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction and more bouncy and fun like Jennifer Anniston in well, anything (for his sake).
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