I'm experiencing a fair amount of hesitation over today's post, for I am about to make an obnoxious display of how royally fabulous the Spouse is. And once I make this obnoxious display, you're all gonna feel bad that you don't have him as your Spouse. I dare say that even the dudes will feel all sorts of badness because they don't get to have Spouse as their spouse.
(Before you get any ideas, note that we are a one-man, one-woman arrangement, so don't send a resume.)
On Wednesday, I had, in a manner of speaking, counted my chickens before they had hatched. I had bragged to you all about my Powder Day, and how the planets had aligned and whatnot to facilitate said Powder Day. I woke Thursday morning, read the powder alert e-mail, and hopped right out of bed. I wondered into Yahoo #1's room, threw the day's wearables onto his slumbering self, and hollered a “Get your ass outa bed!” Not really. I left the ass part out. I mumbled a gentle, loving, “Get your bad self outa bed, sweetheart" cause that's the kind of mom I am. Gentle and loving.
I was about to mumble that same gentle, loving, “Get your bad self outa bed” at Yahoo #2, when I was taken aback by his bedroom scene. Something wasn't quite right... the boy was sleeping on just a blanket, the sheets had been stripped and were nowhere to be found. Something definitely was not right. I looked around for more clues, and noticed that the carpet had been freshly scrubbed. That was indeed a clue... a freshly scrubbed carpet. The real clue, however, was the fact that Yahoo #2 was all snuggled up to a bowl. And not just any bowl. The puke bowl.
As an aside, do you guys also have a puke bowl? A bowl designated for puking, and only puking? Please tell me you don't allow the puking to transpire in your best salad bowl – the salad bowl you bring to pot-luck gatherings.
After my inner Nancy Hardy had solved the mystery of Yahoo #2's bedroom scene, the heart sank. The heart sank right down to the bottom of my fat heels. No ski day for me. Boo hoo. Not, poor little guy – he's been up all night puking. Or, poor Spouse – he's been up all night cleaning it up. It was poor selfish, self-centered, self-absorbed, self-indulgent Rabid – she doesn't get to ski today.
I went back to the bedroom where Spouse appeared to be sleeping, and sank myself onto the bench. “Um. Is Yahoo #2 sick?” said I. “Yes,” said Spouse. “Oooooooo-kay,” said I, which meant more than just okay. It meant, poor me. My plans are finished. All that of week planning was for naught. Now I gotta call Makell and tell her it's off.
Here's where Spouse is great. He knew exactly what that “Ooooooo-kay” meant and replied with, “I already sent an e-mail. You're going skiing today.” Spouse, without being asked, burned a day of his precious vacation so as I could follow through with my plans. Can you believe that? Holy smokes! That's Super Hero Spouse Stuff, isn't it? The Stuff made from Super frickin' Hero Spouses.
You know what I did? I went skiing. I didn't even say, “Are you sure......?” or pull that martyr, poor-stay-home-wife crap that I kinda do often. I packed it up and high-tailed it right on out of there.
It was a good day too. Great day, in fact. Not exactly the Powder day, but five or six runs with fresh tracks ain't so bad.