Last week or some time earlier this week, Lynnette’s friend Gina posted something about how “men turn to boys when they’re sick.” While I should never been considered as the voice of a gender, let alone a masculine one, I’d have to agree. I rarely get sick, but when I do, it usually knocks me on my ass for a solid two days. I am rendered to a state where I am incapable of doing anything but sleeping, watching television while slipping in and out of consciousness, and checking the usual apps on my phone. Lynnette has to come home from being a nurse all day, then has to be one in her home life, too.
Lynnette went home sick yesterday. On my way home she requested lemons for her tea. I picked up a few other things to make dinner. I washed the dishes and bathed Madison. I know that if I had been sick, Lynnette surely would have done the same for me.
Today, Lynnette is at home where she will likely:
1. Sleep a lot.
2. Tend to her reef on the iPad.
3. Snack her way half-way through several bags of goodies lying around the house.
4. Carry on conversations with Abby in the same way Tom Hanks did with his volleyball friend in Castaway, albeit in a voice with a dramatically higher pitch.
5. Search frantically for a marathon of Duck Dynasty.
My lovely wife has already sent me this fine picture of Abby which indicates two things: it is cold in Mililani Mauka and Abby’s already tired of being told how cute she looks in her nylon vest.
Last night Lynnette put Madison to bed while I awaited her return in our room. Lynnette said that she didn’t want to sleep with Mad because she didn’t want the Goob to get sick. I was irrationally excited because I never get to cuddle with Lynnette anymore. I watched syndicated re-runs of Criminal Minds and Law and Order: SVU before finally giving up some time right before 9. I was already asleep when something woke me up. I could see Lynnette’s face illuminated by her phone. She plopped down in the bed next to me. “All I want to do is play with my reef, but I’m so tired,” she said. She got into bed in the fetal position with her back towards me. Before I could arrange myself, she laid down some ground rules: “I don’t want your cold skin on me.” Wow. “My body hurts all over so be careful where you put your hands.” C’mon!
I think I would have protested under normal circumstances, to which Lynnette would have replied “It’s Tuesday.” But since she was in obvious discomfort, I acquiesced to her conditions and cuddled briefly before rolling away to the side of my bed that I have come to know as “Elba.” I fell asleep clutching her hand.
Some time later I stirred and opened my eyes to darkness. My ears, though, weren’t as lucky. Lynnette was working on cutting down a rainforest. If an Ent happened to be walking by our bedroom window, he would have been incredulous and summoned all of his Ent friends to battle.
I admit that I had some trouble getting back to sleep. I turned on my side, back facing Lynnette. As her snoring rang in the night, I smiled and thought what she and my daughter must have to deal with whenever I snore. If Lynnette was cutting down a few trees, then anecdotal evidence would suggest my snoring is more the sound of a 747 colliding into the face of a mountain over and over.
I gently reached my right leg backwards and tapped Lynnette’s leg with my foot. She stirred slightly, ending the snoring. For a few breaths. Before I could return to dreamland, Lynnette recommenced ruining the environment for the sake of paper goods.
When I awoke this morning, her snoring was somewhat subdued. Perhaps she had stumbled into a dream in which I am skinny again, dressed only in boardshorts serving her margaritas on a beach where the water is crystal clear and the sun is warm, but unoppressive. See you tonight, Love.