This reminds me of an epitaph I read about on a tombstone. Back when your last words were carved there for perpetuity, some unlucky sucker's were "I told you I was sick."
I can sympathize.
How sick exactly does a mom have to be before she gets absolved of household duties?
Tomorrow I go for a CT scan of my lungs, because they're just not clearing up. My x-rays were unchanged after 4 weeks and a round of antibiotics. This is scary stuff, because, in my mom's words, "You don't fool around with your lungs." They are a vital organ, aren't they?
In the meantime, I'm still working on my book, still shuttling children hither and yon, still cleaning the house, still running errands, still making all forms of holiday arrangements. No doubt if I were far sicker than I am now, I'd still manage a grocery list from my deathbed.
Yesterday I got to thinking about what Tom would do if I wasn't around. It started when Sam had a major diaper leak at JC Penney's on Black Friday. We were nowhere done shopping, so I told Tom to take Sam to the children's section and buy him a pair of pants--on clearance--so we wouldn't have to deal with a wet and miserable child for another couple of hours. And Tom had to ask me what size pants he wore.
He doesn't know Sam's birth date. He has no idea what size shoes the boys wear. Or when they're due for shots. He doesn't know where I store their outgrown clothes. Or when to register for consignment sales. He doesn't realize that half the clothes in Sam's closet are for him to grow into. Or that John has extra diapers in the garage. It's amazing to me that he gets to walk around all day, minutia-free. He can think about the big important things in life, and I get to wonder how many days we can go without buying more goldfish crackers.
I'm not going to get into the inherant unfairness of my life versus Tom's. Although, I will say that while Tom was at his umpteenth meeting today, I cleaned up vomit. Twice. Both Sam's and the dog's.