When Brett got into the mini van Friday evening after a 4 day conference in Texas, these were the words of welcome he received:
"You will pamper me until I feel better. You will clean the apartment top to bottom. You will find a babysitter and take me on a date when I'm better."
Now, I know it wasn't Bretts fault that Kembry was sick and unresponsive to antibiotics.
I know he didn't leave the window open on purpose so that when I tried to close it, it came down on me like a crazy Kamakazi, break my finger and partially (fingers crossed, pun intended) severed my tendon.
I know that neither he, nor the sweet and amazing woman in my ward, could have predicted that the Urgent Care would be closed, or that Chloe would wake up with a horrible cough and stridor, and not be able to breathe.
Or that I would spend the next three hours getting my broken finger attacked by a wailing, tortured baby receiving a shot, a breathing treatment, and another shot. Or that my "Mommy Terror Levels" would reach "Code Red" as the doctor kept saying Chloe might need to be hospitalized.
While my husband partied it up in Texas. And didn't return my phone calls or texts.
How on earth could any of us predict that I wouldn't get much rest that week, and hence be susceptible to the Flu. 103 temps were running in our family last week, apparently.
And I know Brett would have loved to have helped the continual flooding from our kitchen sink, had he been here.
So, at the end of the week, I've never been so mad at the man I married eight years ago.
He had no way of knowing. Poor guy.
Now, I'm off to bed while he takes care of the rest. I've earned a nap.