I’ve been laid low for the past three days with mastitis. It totally sucks: there’s no other way to put it.
Commence graphic whining. To skip whining, please see * below.
The first three or four times I got mastitis over the past year, it was like being hit by a truck. Imagine the worst flu you’ve ever had, then add boob pain. The only good news was that I was able to power through on water and nursing, and the worst of it would go away in 24 hours or so.
This time, it was like all of that, but times ten: it was like being hit by a train. I didn’t get out of bed at all on Saturday. Finally I broke down and begged antibiotics from my OB–to hell with my microbiome and Charlotte’s delicate little stomach: I need the big guns this time around.
Yesterday I rallied in the afternoon long enough to eat and moan a bit. Then I had a relapse in the middle of the night and woke up drenched in sweat and shaking like a leaf. Today I’ve alternated between 4-hour naps and 3-hour wakeful periods, during which we attended a first birthday and then a Memorial Day picnic. I can only hope I didn’t say anything irresponsible at either of those events, because I literally don’t remember them at all.
Whining now over. Whew.
During all of this horridness I had a few lucid thoughts:
- Please, just let me die now.
- Childbirth got nothing on mastitis. At least after childbirth you get a baby.
- I have the best husband in the entire world.
While I was wishing for death, the father of my child was working overtime. He took Charlotte from 6am until 7pm every day. Walking, playing, feeding, bathing, changing, crying, sleeping. Plus walked the dog and cleaned the house and brought me water and green smoothies on a regular basis. Because when you feel like death, the only thing you really want to ingest is pureed kale and watermelon (yum).
While I was weighing birthing pains against my migraine, I could hear G and Charlie laughing, singing, playing the piano (badly), and making animal noises.
I will tell you right now: there is nothing sweeter than a father having a blast with his baby daughter. Nothing. I will never tire of watching them dance together (mostly disco? for some reason?) and laugh. Or hearing him encourage her to eat just one more piece of fruit (“non, dans ta bouche, non, dans la bouche a toi!”).
Yesterday evening, after the babe was in bed, he gave me a long hug before I fell asleep again.
“You know I respected you before, but now I really respect you.” I laughed.
“Why, because I look after our kid?”
“I don’t know how you do it. You’re amazing.”
You know what’s really amazing? A guy who’ll take over full-time childcare (and love every moment of it), clean the house, make green smoothies, and then tell you you’re amazing at the end of the day, even though you look like shit and have been asleep for 23 out of the past 24 hours.
So there you have it, little sis: my great wisdom on marriage, albeit seen through a fog of misery. I think you’ve found a good one… I can totally see him making great animal noises one day.