The Double B spent almost the ENTIRE NIGHT puking last night. It was horrible. I have never known one human being could create that much vomit. And then there was nothing left in his stomach -- nothing, I tell you! -- and his body was still seizing. All night. That hurts so bad. I felt so, so sorry for him. Some of the sorriest I have ever felt, and let me tell you, there have been moments when I have truly pitied my husband. Last night was a doozy, though. It ranks right up there with knee surgery, fifty hour work weeks, and when his wife is on the hormonal warpath from hell. That is how sorry I felt. I'm pregnant, though, so I was sort of helpless. I couldn't really go in the bathroom, if you know what I mean, so I sat on the bed outside of the bathroom, held my breathe, and called in words of commiseration and pathetic comfort. I did take out the full garbage can, though, and that took a deeply intense internal pep-talk. But I did it, dangit. Because that is what love is all about. I want to spend forever with this man. That means I will take out bathroom-sized garbage can's full of barf for as long as it takes!!! He slept most of the day. I tried to keep him in bed. But he felt is was his civic duty as coach of the softball team 'Ben's Boyz' to go to St. George tonight and sit in the dugout. I wasn't so sure of this, but I knew nothing would stop him. I sent him with garbage bags and gatorade.
If he comes home and I find out he played, he's dead.
Of course, if he played, he might be dead, anyway. And I will not need to punish him. Two birds with one stone.
I made rolls tonight, as there is a funeral in the ward tomorrow and I'm too el-cheapo to go buy some. I hate making rolls, and here is why: My Aunt Mary Lou (bless her little pea-pickin' heart) makes celestial rolls. I mean, rolls so good that I am pretty sure they will be served at the bounteous feast in heaven. Her daughters (bless their little pea-pickin' hearts) have inherited this talent. They make it look effortless. And the rolls... the rolls are so good. So deeply good. (Especially the orange rolls. I love them a lot. So if anyone who can make them is reading this and wants to make some and fed-ex them to me, I would not be opposed.) The thing about these rolls is they are kind of labor intensive. And if there is anything I am, it is lazy. I use the exact same recipe. And although my efforts have been improving over the years, and darned if those rolls don't look pretty sweet that I just pulled out of the oven, THEY ARE NOT THE SAME.
I don't understand. And yet I do understand. It's confusing.
Either way. I made rolls. And they are going to a funeral tomorrow. And my husband will be sad. Because he likes rolls a whole, whole lot.
My daughter has been on an ornery kick that would impress even Osama Bin Laden. She had an eye-infection. Very sad. But mostly I just think it is hormones. I have never met a three-year-old with as much out of control estrogen in my life (And Livi, when you read this as a grown woman, please know how very much I love you and that even if I say you were an ornery kid, I still think you are awesome. Deeply awesome.). She's been pushing me and every one else she knows to the very limits of sanity. Of course, it could be that my estrogen levels are also out of control. And I mean that. I have become the mean pregnant lady. I don't say my thoughts (usually), but I think them. I've had to accept my New Year's resolution is dead and just throw it out the window to salvage my wounded self-esteem -- cause I used to be kinda nice, and now... now I am evil. In fact, the other day I went so far as to have an internal debate with myself over whether it is perfectly okay to accept that you just really don't like someone and if that is perfectly alright and you should go on not liking them, or if that is not Christian. And for all my orneriness (Olivia had to get it from somewhere), I do want to follow Christ. That was all before Sunday. Then I took the sacrament, was spiritually fed, and decided it is my moral obligation to beat my natural woman with a billy-club until she is brought into submission. And darned if I won't do it, too. Especially after the whole psychotic hormone thing has ebbed. (Dear Brethren: Sorry I keep saying hormones.)
Am I just acting out? Melissa, if you think I am just acting out, please send me a psychic message.
Here is the funny story of the day, one that the dear Double B said I have to put on our blog, even though he doesn't read our blog. I think it's sweet he's taking ownership, like he has something to do with it. So the other day we were picking up Daddy from work, and K.J. was trying to finagle dinner at a sit-down restaurant. I said that would be fun, but I don't have enough money right now. He asked "Does Daddy have enough money?" I said nope! He then asked "Where does money come from?" And I explained that is why Daddy goes to work and works so hard, is so that our family will have money to pay bills and do fun things when there is enough left over. He took a long pause and said "So... Daddy goes to work to make money, and then he gives all the money to you?"
And... scene. I laughed. That is probably the way it looks (and the Double B's sad reality). The Double B thought that was the funniest story ever when I told it to him. I think he was rather charmed. And I was charmed 'cause he was charmed. Funny how that works.
In closing, I will now confess two things.
1) I have grown deeply, deeply addicted to NCIS. I gave the Double B the first six seasons on DVD. We just finished them. And it's too far into season seven, so the early episodes are not on the Internet. Which means in my mind I'm warrior screaming "ZIVA! COME BACK! IT WAS SELF-DEFENSE!" And I, and I alone, can hear my cries. I am a loser.
2) I am addicted to a game on my six-year-old's webkins account. It's just that I finally got past level five. And I scored one hundred and six points! I can't stop now.
I am a double loser.
And that is alright by me.