I woke up at 5:30 this morning with a jump, a steroid-induced hot flash, and heavily breathing in fear! I'm not sure what rational people have nightmares about, but I'm pretty sure it is not the accumulation of dust and debris on and near the baseboards. I sit in the darkness trying to calm down, "One Q-tip resting in the crevice is not going to multiply overnight." I realize I'm on the verge of losing my mind.
Isn't it enough that when I'm sick I'm ultra-sensitive on top of my already extra-sensitivity or that I cry at a glance? But top that with a monthly and I'm a wreck!
Last night after supper all five of us sit around chatting. Without trying, I make J-squared's youngest cry.
She says, "I love you, Muffy."
I melt, "Awww, I love you too."
Under her breath she whispers, "J/k."
Normally when Phaedra jokes like that I reply, "That's okay because I love your brother or sister more." But not last night, no! Last night I open my mouth wide in shock. The sickness combined with hormones and the concoction of steroids, antibiotics, a mild pain reliever, and narcotic cough suppressant which should have left me zombified only opens a floodgate of tears.
Being the sensitive young lady that Phaedra is, at the sight of me crying her eyes bubble up and spill over with tears, "I'm so sorry Muffy. I really do love you! I love you!"
J-squared, who is always quick to remedy a situation with impeccable comedic timing, accuses Phaedra of taking the boy-child's 'job' of making me cry.
The boy-child squints and agrees, "Yes..." in a diabolical tone. I can see the cogs and spokes behind his eyes slowly beginning to turn. I can see him contemplating his next move, perhaps a checkmate to regain his title.
We all laugh.
As we clear the table and put away the leftovers Phaedra squeezes in between me and the refrigerator, "Muffy, do you know I love you?"
Oh damn, I've got to stick my face in the freezer. I feel another hot flash coming on, "Yes Sweetie. I know."
"Well, if you know I love you how come you're still all weepy?"
I explain to her how all the medication I am on can mess with me, which makes me hypersensitive. She still expresses a concern that I am mad at her and inquires if I have stopped loving her because of her joke.
That thought is preposterous! Really the joke is pretty funny. She reels me in with sweetness and once I'm lured in she yanks away the security. I would have laughed; it was just bad timing.
Despite my urge to do the dishes, I close my eyes to the state of the kitchen, take an extended peak in the freezer, and then make my way down the hallway. After all, the kids won't ever do the dishes if they know I'll go in behind them to complete their chore.
As I walk back to the bedroom to go to bed I glance at the Q-tip on the floor. You know, a couple of months ago I was tired of seeing used Q-tips on the floor so I color coated them. I bought each child a specific color of Q-tip. From the color of the stem I know who the offending litter-bug is. But that damn thing has been dead on the carpet for more than three days and nobody has bothered to pick it up! If I see it, I know they see it. They should find this disgusting, embarrassing and disrespectful. It is a real disappointment to all the hard work we put into cleaning the house in June. I question my sanity at such a build-up of anger over a simple Q-tip on the floor. I chalk it up to roid-rage.
Sensitive or not it's hard enough to squelch or attempt to curb my OCD, but if these prescriptions are exacerbating cleanliness to the point I'm living the nightmare in my sleep, I'm screwed!
However, if the youngest wants to prove that she loves me she could finish up the sink full of dishes. Or better yet she could dust and vacuum the baseboards. After all, to withstand a nightmare and proving to have medicinal powers at preventing lost minds, pristine baseboards are truly a tangible expression of unconditional love.