I bet you’re dying to know how not to spend the weekend. Just Dying.
So here you go.
Don’t spend it puking — then cleaning up your daughter’s puke — then cleaning up your son’s puke.
Don’t spend it being nauseated at the thought of food.
Don’t spend it being annoyed at your male co-worker who upon finding out you’ve been puking your guts up all night, starts laughing and asks if you’re pregnant. Haha. Yeah. Cuz that’s so funny, right?
Don’t spend it being offended at your two-year old sons rejection of your affections.
Don’t spend it being angry that your $1ooo dining set has been scratched to oblivion by your oblivious but endearing husband as he attempts to re-string his guitars on the dining table. For hours. HOURS. Oblivious to the very fact that he is indeed covering 50% of the table in deep, jagged scratches and indentations.
I love him. I do. God, I love him.
Don’t spend it working at your job, on a Sunday, trying to train a new nurse whilst you’re recovering from a stomach virus.
This only makes for a very long, very bad, terrible, awful day.
Don’t spend it comforting your 12-year-old son. On his birthday. As he pukes his guts up.
And don’t spend it being an ungrateful brat, who stomps around the house, hollering about how everything is a fucking mess, kicking toys across the floor and injuring your big toe in the process.
The kids are in bed. You’re typing on the computer, enjoying the stillness. And your husband. Your lovely, bespectacled, plaid-shirt wearing husband is sitting on the couch next to you. Playing his bass guitar with the most heavenly look on his bearded face. And he’s happy.
So you’re happy.
Even though he fucked up the table.