It’s 1:30 am. I can’t sleep. My sickness (that I won’t describe) woke me and then Ruby called. And then Ruby called again. And I’m noticing that my breast is hurting more and more. I’m worried this is another breast infection. And I really don’t want another breast infection because I am already, currently, sick for the third time in three weeks. I don’t need a fourth.
I’ve really been trying to be optimistic these last couple days. To remind myself of things I should be grateful for. At least Ollie’s not sick. Or Ruby. Or Jason or my mom. At least my mom is still here to help. At least I don’t feel nauseated. At least I’ve been able to keep my fever down with Tylenol. At least we have good health insurance. At least my milk supply hasn’t dropped off as it could with sickness. At least it’s the weekend now and Jason is home.
Still, I’m not grateful for this sickness. I can’t stop fantasizing about running off to a hotel by myself. I miss the days when sick meant lots of sleep and lying on the couch watching TV. I want to rest. Without having to wake multiple times in the night to breastfeed. Without having to breastfeed at all. Without a toddler tantruming, or touching me or, really, talking at all. I just want to rest. PRIVATELY.
I need to rest. And I can’t sleep. Here I am, all alone in my silent living room writing this blog post. Oh the irony. I thought it fitting that I take care of one to-do while up with my, apparently, deteriorating body.
I have no idea how I will make this happen if I get in. But I do know this is the first step.