Yogurt's Not so Bad

Well, yesterday was the birthday of our marriage. We turned 5. We are very much looking forward to entering kindergarten this year. We've mastered the basics of human functioning (we're better with our messes--especially the ones in the bathroom, we've learned to use our words instead of just screaming when we're mad, and we're even learning a little bit about how to read. Each other, that is), and now we're ready to move on to more mature living. Onward bound, then!

I woke up yesterday with the beginnings of an infection. I'm not going to elaborate on that. The relevant part is that I arranged a doctor's appointment ASAP, got myself an antibiotic and went about my day, albeit feeling gross and kinda sick to my stomach. When I put the kids down for their nap, I followed their lead. William down, Nora down, Mommy down, too. I woke up two hours later feeling pregnant. I'm not, but I didn't know that at the time. I felt something akin to the severe nausea of motion sickness, I was shaky, and no matter how much I tried to rally for our big dinner out, I just couldn't do anything but lay down. I mean, how's that for you? Ten minutes before it's time to leave, your kinda freaked-out husband returns from CVS and tells you to run upstairs and quick take this test before the babysitter gets here. And you're like, I can pee on a stick, but I'm not sure I'm gonna get into a dress. Sorry, bud.

Babysitter arrived, and he's awesome. He's got this whole pack of stuff and a pile of books that our kids just devoured. George is like, uh oh. The kids haven't eaten yet. So he makes them some eggs. Eggs. Of all smells to fill the house, that's the one that did. I sprinted to our bedroom, still not dressed for our date, covering my face with the comforter and begging God to spare me the atrocity of throwing up on our anniversary. George comes upstairs, and he's like, Maura. Seriously. I'll send the sitter home. We'll do this when you're feeling better. I, however, would have none of it. It's just unfair that we've been looking forward to our fancy dinner for weeks. I was feeling a little gross this morning, but functional. It's so uncool that this is happening now right? Urg! So, I offered the compromise of going to Applebee's instead of the fancy schmancy out-of-town French restaurant. I might be able to rally for some plain spaghetti...eh, I don't know.

George: How about steak?

Me: Oh, God. No.

George: Lasagna?

Me: *moan*

George: Chicken soup?

Me: STOP NAMING FOODS.

By now, we're on the verge of some kind of emotional outburst. I was either going to start laughing or crying. And then he said, "You know, this is so us."

"Ha. What part?"

"All of it. Like you thinking you were pregnant when you weren't. Us having a really fantastic plan, and completely missing the target. We'll do this, though. We'll take what we've got and make it work."

So, we paid our babysitter to stay downstairs with the kids for two hours so we could lie on our bed watching episodes of The Office on Hulu, while I nursed a bowl of vanilla yogurt and a huge glass of cold water.

He's right. This is so us. If I were on the outside, I would never want the kind of romance that is happy with yogurt and The Office over gourmet French cuisine on our anniversary. But when it comes down to it, I can't think of anything better than the man who was happy to share it with me.