I hate to have to tell you guys this, since I know you really like Steve and all, but he was being a total dil-hole this weekend. His best friend was visiting and they were running around yukking it up and drinking seemingly unfathomable quantities of beer mixed with god only knows what else and playing cards until midnight and smoking cigars outside but I could still smell them. This behavior, in and of itself, would have been ok. Heavens knows I was young once and slumber parties rock but unfortunately Steve took it a step too far. He planned an overnight trip on Saturday to go look for owls (huh? yes, owls) in northern Minnesota. This had been agreed to ahead of time and although I probably would have prefered for him to stay closer to my deathbed of morning sickness there was an undeniable appeal to the fact that it got both him and his litle pal out of the house for a while. And I didn't have to feed them.
However, just as he was motoring around filling up his cooler with ice and soda and (presumably) more beer I was overcome by nausea and started vomiting in the kitchen sink. And Patrick chose that moment to grab my knees and pull HARD, wailing "Mama COME! Mama COME!" in an ascending scale of shriek. Steve scurried by, eyes averted, not once but THREE times without even so much as an "Are you ok? Can I get you something?" let alone a "Maybe we should stay home, my wilting flower, and tend to you in your time of need."
I was still throwing up as the sound of tires crunching gravel faded away.
I know! Totally! What a jerk.
I brought this up yesterday after his friend left and he was acceptably sheepish and apologetic. I think he was afraid that if he acknowledged I was unwell then he would have to offer to stay home. And he really wanted to see those owls. Fair enough. I don't think Lancelot would have behaved in the same way, but who knows?
After our little talk, though, he is a reformed character. The delicate sound of my ladylike "Hurk" brings him running from all over the house, clutching limeade and wet washcloths. At first I thought it was sweet but it is already driving me crazy.
"Don't touch me!" I keep screaming, protecting my head from his loving pats.
It sort of reminds me of the plants I have that die the moment I stop neglecting them. I have started leaving brochures around the house, lauding the merits of a Father-Son Around the World Cruise. Wouldn't that be lovely?