Jason is sick.
Jason? Never gets sick. Well, hardly ever. I can count on one hand the number of times he's been ill in the almost nine years that I've known him.
Last night he went to bed around 8pm. He didn't get up this morning until about 9am. He requires about six hours of sleep, as a general rule.
And? This morning? He told me several times that his stomach hurt.
I've been trying to work all day today. I'm on huge deadlines for about twenty different projects. I really, really, REALLY need to get certain things done by Friday. My manager said I could work as much overtime as I needed to get it done (yay, I guess), so I've been spending long nights and weekend hours trying to catch up. Because believe me. At my office, I cannot go twenty minutes without an interruption. Ever. And what I've been working on requires me to actually concentrate. I am not good at concentrating.
Throughout the day, as I've been sitting here at my little desk, trying to check things off my to-do list, my husband has periodically shouted, "Chick! Can you come help me please?"
The first time? Was so I could help him shave his back.
The second time? Was because my daughter was cleaning up her room and he wanted me to make sure that everything she was throwing away was actually supposed to be thrown away.
The third time? Was so I could praise Boy Child for what a good job he did cleaning his room.
By the fourth time he was saying, "Chick! Can you come help me please?" I was feeling a bit exasperated.
I walked into the bedroom and he was sitting on the bed, covered in sweat.
"Yes?" I asked.
And then? The smell hit me.
THE DISGUSTING VOMIT SMELL.
He threw up all over the bathroom.
All. Over. The. Bathroom.
Oh my dear Lord, it was so, so wrong.
He said, as I was knee-deep in the vomitous sludge, "I owe you one". And then, he fell asleep.
He owes me so many more than one.