I’ve had a terrible cold. Bad enough that if Adam had it, he’d be lying in bed moaning, instead of doing the only adult thing I could do: Walk around moaning and completely martyring myself in the name of caring for my children. I’m proud to say there wasn’t even any extra TV involved.
Last night, I felt truly horrible. I pulled a muscle in my neck at the gym and it was getting better except that Pie, with her amazing sense of timing, has decided that now that she’s been walking for six months, she’s completely over it. “Carry!” she stands and screams. “Carry!” So picking her up has completely aggravated the pain. So my head is stuffed (and thanks to the joys of ming ming, Nyquil is off-limits), my nose is running, my neck is sore, and suddenly I get a nice bout of heartburn. I think it’s heartburn at least. I call Adam upstairs. “I just want you to know that my neck hurts, my head is stuffed, and my chest hurts.”
Adam looks confused. “For what? Your tombstone? That’s a pretty lame tombstone.”
I reply, “No, you moron. For the paramedics. Because once I’ve passed out, I won’t be able to tell them my symptoms.”
Adam looked relieved. “That’s good. Because that would be horrible tombstone to have to make. People would think I was weird.”
