Four months, and counting

A snapshot of what it’s like with a wife on bed rest:

Son ambles in at six thirty. “Let’s watch Spider-Man!” Decides my slothful motions are not indicative of Spider-Man watching; visits wife.
Get up. Find son and wife curled up, asleep. Damn, that’s cute.
Make breakfasts for family.
Fuss over wife.
Go upstairs and work, because it’s Bay Area rush hour; there’s no point in getting in the car.
Ninety minutes later, decide that traffic flow could conceivably be bearable.
Receive surprise quickie neck massage from Jamey, who’s visiting as company for Shannon. Give profuse thanks.
Fuss over wife. Into car.
Work like dog. Discover that someone else’s code I’m supposed to be “finishing off” is not only incomprehensible, but gets wrong answers that vary wildly on every. Single. Frigging. Run.
Leave early. Now have to make dinner every day.
Home after five. Fuss over wife. Stress causing sleep loss causing migraine. Poor unfortunate fucking woman, as if bed rest weren’t enough.
Dinner on table before six, cleaned up by six fifteen. How did an indolent geek turn into this model of domestic efficiency?
Take son grocery shopping. No, he can’t have the sugar bombs. No, the candy nukes are right out. No, nobody makes gooey silicone Spider-Man toys, as has been the case at each inquiry, every day of the past several months.
Return home many dollars poorer, but with fresh cherries and plums. Joy! Plop son into bath.
Put son to bed. Tell incoherent bedtime story involving Spider-Man and sundry maleficent cartoon characters.
Fuss over wife.
Put out recycling. Curse idiot who mixed plastic and paper, forcing messy sorting. Conclude that idiot was most probably self.
Launder. Fold.
Decide that perhaps a beer may be in order. It transpires that the Bud languishing at the back of the fridge passed away almost a year ago, unnoticed. Do the decent thing; flush the bugger down the sink.

We have somewhere between eleven and fifteen weeks of this sort of thing yet to come, in which I will also have to find time to get a mountain of baby stuff sorted out. Never a dull moment.

Posted in slice-o-life

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