Happy Independence Day, but late! It was a truly great weekend here. We bought fireworks and food, we went to a party, we blew up the fireworks and ate the food, and then, the next day? I fought off a vicious migraine and we blew up more fireworks. Darcy celebrated by taking a massive dump on the one carpeted area where she is (was) allowed to go.
I’m convinced my husband is an angel. Yesterday, when I woke up with the giant stabbing knife in my brain, and I couldn’t see to make the coffee that I so desperately needed, Caleb asked, “What’s wrong with you?” And since I haven’t actually had a migraine that bad since, probably before we were married, I had to explain: “I have a migraine.” Caleb: blank stare. Me: “I’m trying to breathe and not throw up.”
He made my coffee (that I couldn’t bring myself to drink), took care of the kids, fed the dogs, folded the laundry, washed the dishes, and handled the morning ritual of vacuuming mass quantities dog hair. He helped Cheyenne finish packing for camp; he filled up the kiddie pool on the back porch, and then he took the kids to the store to get me more medicine. I made myself comfortable by pulling up a beanbag chair next to the toilet, where I cried and moaned for a good part of the morning.
I don’t know at what point I made it over to the bed, but I half-woke up to a blurry vision of Caleb handing me pills and a cold rag, like some kind of drug-dealing angel. He told me to sleep. I almost wept with joy. And, once the medicine kicked in, I was able to get up, and sit with my family in the dim light of the living room. I walked around in an acetaminophen-induced stupor for the rest of the day.
And it was glorious.
I’m actually still pretty doped up today. I am floating from room to room and I don’t really care, as long as I can drink my coffee without vomitting. I can sense some pain in the back of my head, but it’s fairly numb, and the only thing that’s really bothering me today is an upset tummy.
Cheyenne left for summer camp. She’ll be gone for the week–and I’ll miss her. Except when Cheyenne goes anywhere overnight, it’s awesome around here, because Mia takes over her room; both the little kids sleep wonderfully through the night. Sure, the bunkbeds are cool and all, and in every other way, the shared-room-between-brother-and-sister-thing is working out–except at night, when all they do is wake each other up with their sleep-talking/fussing/crying/screaming/moving/breathing, or whatever. And then, once awake, they either scream bloody murder for mommy and daddy, or they just come running to our bedroom without warning, where they hop up in our bed and cling to us for dear life.
We know our lines perfectly: “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Did you have a bad dream?” And here’s where Merrick gets it wrong: “No, my feet were cold.” And Mia: “I like your pillows better.”
And don’t say “Hey, get those kids new pillows.” Because I would have tried it already if I actually thought it would help.
But for the rest of the week, the kids will sleep at night.