I can handle sick. I can handle throwing up, I can handle ruptured ear drums, I can handle breathing treatments. I can handle the flu. I may not like it, but I've got it covered. As long as it's the kids.
But. This week? Sarge got the flu. Down for the count for a week. Four days, then just sorta here for another three.
And, confession time. I was a terrible wife. I hated every minute of it. I threw the box of tissues at him when he needed them, I brought him medicine, but with a scowl. Water? FINE with a hint of overdramatic sigh. I hated it.
Not that I couldn't handle the house or the household duties by myself. I am perfectly capable. I can get the kids off to school, take out the trash and bake a cake, all while standing on one foot and balancing a stack of plates. Under control.
He wasn't so sick that I needed to worry, just pick up your own darn tissues and wash your hands every time you get up and DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING. But. I hated it.
I like this life better with him in it, present. He was there, taking up the whole couch, but he wasn't there. We couldn't debate the newspaper or laugh at the children or roll our eyes at them. We couldn't discuss anything really, because he was just not well enough to even hold his head up, really.
So, if it's any consolation, Sarge, that's why I'm so terrible to you when you're sick. It's not that I'm mad at you or that you're too much work, I just like life better when you're in it, right next to me, forging ahead together. So maybe next time you'll feel a little better when I throw the box of tissues at you.