This morning, before leaving for work, Pal came in to tell me he’d left some bread rising and just needed to go in the oven when I woke up properly.
Then looked at me, and Osky. Neither of us slept well. He’s got tonsillitis and that means that I too, in particular, must suffer.
And then I realised I could barely breathe. And my own throat hurt.
And it made me cry because I DON’T WANT TONSILLITIS!
Also, because sleep deprived.
Pal whispered sweet nothings into my ear along the lines of: “go back to sleep, I’ll stay home today.”
And I did go back to sleep, safe in the knowledge that my husband is a bloody legend and I love him so much my tonsils could just about leap out of my throat in delight that we found each other.
I awoke again, to the melodic tones of Play School.
Which immediately alarmed me because SHIT! 9:30am!
It was too quiet except for the TV and I was pretty sure the other two children must have killed themselves or done something so naughty that they’d actually just been tossed out of the universe to spare us all the heartbreak.
I extracted myself from still-sleeping Oscar Octopus (setting: industrial grade Velcro) and stumbled to the loo, then straight to the kitchen for coffee.
As I plonked myself on the couch, amongst the quiet children, I look over and see
my hero Pal.
He smiles at me and I swoon again because he loves me and is taking care of us.
And I mention I’m going to have to make a decision by tonight about heading to Sydney for a blogging event.
And that beautiful, amazing man says to me:
Pal: “Well, I don’t know if you’re going to Sydney, but your eyes are!”
Pal: “You know, because they’ve already packed their bags.”
He’s alive. If you were wondering.
Ever wondered where your partner’s sense of humour comes from?
And how they’ve managed to survive life thus far?