the yucks

I had such high hopes for spring break. I planned to race around for a week and tie up all sorts of pre-baby loose ends. I wanted J and I to go out to dinner and maybe even a movie. I wanted to cook and freeze meals. I wanted to finish my knitted blanket and do a bunch of grading. Instead, I’ve spent the last seven days bedridden. A week ago, I started to cough. By Tuesday, I was feverish and at the doctor. Somehow I contracted a late winter flu (even though I did get a flu shot) that has left me completely incapacitated and with a cough that sounds like a tortured seal. So I’ve spent all week chugging codeine-laden Robitussin, sleeping in two-hour increments, and praying that I don’t go into spontaneous labor while I’m this sick. I trust that my body wouldn’t do that to me, but I’m worried about not being fully recovered by Thursday, when I’m scheduled for a c-section. Yesterday I read that this cough can linger for weeks and the idea of it with six-inch incision makes me queasy (and compels me to research belly binding). And don’t even get me started on my concern that I’ll infect the baby with my yucks during his first days of his life.

But there are bright spots, yellow ones. Yogi ginger tea with whole lemons and lots of honey. A curled up mutt who just wants to give love. A cozy, cotton, lace lovey from a talented sister-in-law. And well, there's also the bright spot of March Madness just as we're about to enter a house-bound phase...