Coughing, Crying and Cursing

Himself has a bad cough - I'm placing money on bronchitis (because, hey, someone always gets sick the week we're supposed to have company ... bronchitis, strep, tonsilitis, pneumonia ... and it is Himself's turn to be sick). It's bad enough he's actually going to the doctor. I can count the number of times he's been to the doctor on one hand in the 9.5 years I've known him, if that gives you any idea how lousy he must feel.

Saturday night, Himself hacked up a lung. In one valiant, irritated moment at some unearthly hour, I said, "Himself. We still have the prescription cough syrup from when you had bronchitis in VA, I found it in the move..." Himself, who won't take an Advil if the expiration date was yesterday, bounded out of bed. Every light in the basement went on as he searched for the cough syrup (just because I saw it in the move doesn't mean a) it has been unpacked or b) that I actually have any idea where it is). He came in four or five times to ask about its location. After the last time, I said, "Himself, it is either in the linen closet in the guest bathroom, under the sink of the master bathroom or buried in a box - in which case it will take you until the next move to find it at the rate we're unpacking," and buried my head under the pillow.

Last night, Himself took the cough syrup, in hopes we'd both have a peaceful (relatively) night sleep. He pawed at the sheets, tossed, turned, hacked, groaned, yanked on the sheets again and started the whole process again. And then ... he woke up hacking up a lung. Finally, he said he was going to sleep on the couch. Never one for couch-sleeping, I didn't even argue. At this rate, neither of us were sleeping.

I blissfully settled into quiet slumber, unable to hear Himself hacking away upstairs .... what felt like minutes (but was, in fact, a couple of hours) later, Woodstock wakes up with a full on yell. Nothing would console her. Exhausted, feeling drugged and wanting nothing more than to be in the horizontal postion, I brought her back to my bed.

How someone who isn't even 2.5' tall and weighs less than 20 pounds can take up the entire bed is beyond me, but at 11.5 months, Woodstock is already a bed hog. Every time I'd roll over, Woodstock would snuggle up against me. I'd wait until she was in a deep sleep, then roll over further, to no avail. Soon her fingers would be tangled in my hair and her feet would be in the small of my back.

The cursing started at oh-dark-hundred when Woodstock sat up, sunny smile on her face, said, "alldoh!" (All done) and leaned over to slobber on my face.

Today is not a good day to ask me if I like Mondays.