…is no Sunday at all.
At least, that’s how I’ve always felt. And a week with no church never really begins or ends properly. So it should come as no surprise to me that after missing two Sundays of church, I’m simply beginning to feel that this is the longest week ever lived. I keep thinking it’s almost the weekend — it’s gotta be — only to realize it’s only Tuesday. Bummer.
Just a week or two ago, I was contemplating how I hadn’t really and truly joined the ranks of real moms, because I hadn’t really dealt with sickness, to speak of. The real moms are the women who do the hard, heroic, heavy-duty vomit clean-up. At least, in my book.
Well, I shouldn’t contemplate things like that, because no sooner had the thought formulated than Jameson got a cold that started to keep him up, and then I got the flu, which put me in bed with hallucinations (almost), and then Jameson decided to do the fever thing, too. So, not only have I missed church and lost track of what day it is, I’ve also done nothing but laundry and the occasional meal prep for almost two weeks. Even if I did feel energetic enough to accomplish something, there’s a bleary-eyed baby who wants nothing more than for his mama to hold him. Daddy simply won’t do; it must be mama.
And that’s okay.
For the most part.
I confess to starting to go nuts today when I realized yet another spring day had slipped by, while I blew my nose and cuddled my crying baby. In an attempt to curb the onset of full-blown cabin fever, I did step out to get the mail. And since we’re confessing, I’ll also admit that I took advantage of Ryan watching the baby, and I stayed at the mailbox for a few seconds longer than actually necessary.
It felt wonderful.
Tonight Ryan had a dinner engagement, but before he left, he contracted the services of a certain sister. She helped me by vacuuming and cleaning the bathroom, and holding the baby while I made us some dinner. We made cookies together and talked the whole time, and she forgot to add the flour, which is such a sisters-in-the-kitchen-together sort of thing to do. But the point is I had a wonderful evening because she was here with me, and sometimes holding a 22 pound baby all day gets very tiring, but the evening is more fun than long when shared with a sister. And that 22 pound baby happens to adore our sisters, by the way. His and mine — they’re all hits.
Yes, 22 pounds. And 3.2 ounces, to be exact. HOLY COW. Let’s say that again. HOLY COW.
Spring is coming, Ryan’s going to California for 2 weeks, and I need clothes for little man’s first Easter (and probably for Danica’s first post-baby Easter, too. You know what I mean.)
I could go on and on. Signs of being in an apartment, sick, with a sick baby, having missed too much church, for too long.
But I’ll end. Good night.