During sophomore year in high school I was in the play "A Christmas Carol," better known to most as just "Scrooge." Ours was a school with more of an emphasis on football and cheerleaders than artistic or musical pursuits, so the drama department was a bit neglected. I had a fairly small part, but was in the front row for all the musical group scenes, because I loves me some singing. But that is actually beside the point of this story.
Due to our slightly underfunded department some of our props were not the most structurally sound. In the very end of the play there is that scene where Scrooge jumps out of bed after he finds out that he is not actually dead yet. So when our Scrooge goes to jump out, the bed does a full-on taco on him: the bottom falls through to the ground and then the headboard and footboard come crashing in on him as well. Somehow this 17 year old thespian manages to make this work to his advantage and crawls his way out of the rubble, jumps to his feet with arms raised and shouts "I'm Alive!" And that, boys and girls, is how I feel today.
I had an absolutely fabulous weekend (which will be blogged about as soon as I talk the sister into loaning me some pictures) followed by an absolutely horrid flu episode. I'd like to get this out right now, I am not a barfer. I think the last time I hurled was 1995. So we all know that vomiting is no fun. And for me it is almost always accompanied by what Steinbeck refers to as the skitters. Which is, of course, also no fun. Add to that the fear that the subsequent dehydration will cause the onset of contractions and a possible early labor and you have my Monday morning.
I had taken the day off to drive my sister back to the airport after her Surprise (for her) Birthday Visit out here, but then of course couldn't even dream of doing it. Therefore The Hub had to do the 6 hour round trip, leaving me to call on our (incredibly wonderful) neighbors for such personal favors as... rinsing out my barf bucket, cleaning the vomit off my glasses and regaling me with stories of their own personal regurgitative hells. I'm not sure I can express how nice my neighbors are.
So I made it through yesterday without the onset of labor by drinking one sip of soda or gatorade every 10 minutes, as directed by my midwife. She had said that if I got too dehydrated, she would have come over and popped an IV in my arm. House calls, you gotta love that. Fortunately it did not come to that and as I crawl from my bed today, arms thrust heavenward, I'd like to call out for all to hear "I'm Alive!"