Poor Sick Little Old Me

Up until now, I have tended to view illness as a disguised luxury. I mean, sure, I am always hacking up phlegm, swimming in snot, or barfing up bile, as the case may be. But, illness has always (had always) earned me a ticket out of any responsibilities or obligations. It also earned me the right to be waited on and pitied. Someone would have go to the pharmacy for drugs, sprite, and candies. I would spend a few days on the couch, watch TV, and moan about the pain. Should I have begun to feel the sympathy for my pitiful state to be waning, I would have announced that I felt death was near. More bonbons and soda would be forthcoming. I was the queen, and it made the pain almost worth it.
Alas, just another thing I didn’t appreciate enough about Life before Baby. For today, I am near death (okay, I have a cold) and am I being treated like a queen? No I am not. Because somebody has to go do the grocery shopping, sick or not. And somebody has to cook dinner. And do you think that the baby cares that I may need a nap, or that I have a headache, or that I do not have the energy to comfort him endlessly? Let’s face it, babies aren’t terribly empathetic creatures. And neither are snotty-nosed watery-eyed coughing husbands, for that matter.