This is my least sexy post, ever. You have been warned.
On Monday night, my stomach dragons smote me. Repeatedly. It started at 7pm as I was tucking my wee ones in bed.
I dropped all storytime activities and did battle valiantly(ish) (this is fancy talk for “I threw up”) while the little ones wailed in their bedrooms.
“I am so worried about Mommy,” sobbed my eldest.
“Mama’s sick, I’m so scared,” wept the youngest.
Torment. I couldn’t leave the bathroom yet my babies were distraught and needed me.
So I called them into my bedroom and told them to get into my bed. Then they’d be close to my new station.
That wasn’t close enough. They ended up making nests of towels and pillows on the ensuite floor and my five year old rubbed my back while my little one fell asleep at my feet. Eventually we were all sleeping/resting on the bathroom floor.
As I laid my head against the cool grey tile, my thoughts were as follows:
- someone (me) could be doing a more enthusiastic, thorough, and frequent job of scrubbing this floor
- My kids love me so much. I wish I could violently vomit in a way less traumatizing to them
- I will never eat a turkey sandwich again. Food poisoning, you are my nemesis
- I sincerely hope this is food poisoning (welcome, botulism) because if this is contagious, tomorrow is really, really going to suck
- who has (not) been cleaning this floor? (me )
- I still haven’t started or finished the Operation Secret Valentine postinto which I asked Amanda Farough to paste the Valentine badge she designed
- this is why humans (usually) have to have sex to reproduce. Minimum sets of two big people are really useful for rearing little people
- I wish I had some help. I need help
After a while, I gathered my wits, my moxy, and my balance, and carried my sleeping kids from the bathroom to their beds. I wrote the blog post that was haunting me. I curled up in bed and tried not to move or anger my stomach in any way.
My friend (aka my Gentleman Caller who keeps calling all superfriendlylike even though I’m on a man-diet and he is pretty much #1 on my list of restrictions) called at 10ish to say hi. I whimpered and whined. He said, “Why didn’t you call me? I’d be there in a flash. You should have asked me for help.”
I was shocked – not at his generous offer (and it is generous – he lives an hour away) because that’s just how he is – but at myself.
I hadn’t even considered asking for help. I wanted help, but it never even entered my mind that I should call someone and ask for help.
(This is in fact why I moved to the suburbs almost three years ago – to be closer to my family and be able to lean on them – and be leaned on – when necessary.)
My other sister lives – get this – in my house AND was home at the time.
When I say “didn’t consider asking for help”, I don’t mean that I thought about asking for help and rejected the idea. I mean that although I wanted help, it never occurred to me to actually ask for help.
What does this have to do with sex, money and meaning?
Sex – not having any. Temporarily. I reserve the right to change my mind on this issue at any time without issuing updates. (Who am I kidding? I will totally issue updates.)
Money – I am going to hire someone to clean my house. It is an investment in my mental well-being. The less time I spend cleaning, the more time I can spend writing and making money. And the next time I attempt to merge with the bathroom floor, it will be marginally less distressing.
Meaning – Even though I have resolved to work out my askus requestus muscle, it seems that I have (mostly) trained myself not to ask for help. And that is phony and a power play. It is weak, but not in a “I don’t deserve help” kind of way. Instead, it is a weak in a “I’m going to pretend to be so superior and superwoman-y and got-it-together” way. Which is appalling. I’m going to get right on over that.