I’ve got a backlog of things to blog about. I’ve also got a serious backlog of real work to do, so there you go. One thing at a time, as someone once said.
We got back from a just-about-perfect trip to NYC/NJ on Sunday afternoon.
My husband got the stomach flu on Monday; I got it on Wednesday.
I have a hard time knowing what to do when Andrew’s ill. I blame this deficit primarily on differences in sick-person care preferences: namely, I like to be coddled and waited on (big surprise, I know), whereas Andrew prefers to be left, for the most part, to his own devices. I can’t decide whether this is what he actually wants or if he’s trying to assert some point of pride. “You don’t have to be a hero,” I told him a few days ago, as he brought soup to wallowing, sweaty, gross me. “Yes I do,” he replied. Point taken.
Having the Norwalk virus/rotavirus/whatever caused our week of misery sucked, but I was impressed by the delightfully pessimistic brand of optimism to which I consistently returned throughout the ordeal. This, I kept reminding myself, will pass, unlike those damn chronic illnesses that plague you.