Two weeks ago our family sank into a new nadir: my DH fell ill with fever and shaking chills, and took to bed. Two days later, so did our 2 ½ year-old son. Everything grinded to a halt—I took a week off of work to take care of them, and I feared that my 10 month-old daughter and I were next. Thankfully our nanny was brave enough to show up for work that week and help us out, even with the specter looming of fever, shaking chills, and bone-crushing fatigue. Even so, it was a rough week. Between caring for the kids and nursing a sick DH, I started feeling worn down myself.
When I told my DH that I was thinking about “DH” being down for the count, he asked, “you mean, the designated hitter?” And I started thinking, that’s not so far from the truth—he is my Big Papi. Similarities aside (my DH does have a winning smile and personality: congenial, warm, and beloved by everyone in the clubhouse and beyond), he is my DH—the go-to guy when I need a big hit out of the ballpark at the bottom of the ninth—to care for the kids when I need a break at the end of the day. Always delivering the grand slam of dinner, bath, and bedtime when I am barely able to make it to that magical hour of 7pm with my eyes open. So without him in the line-up, we were at a loose end.
Boy was I glad at the end of the week, when DH perked up in the afternoon after a day of antibiotics and started singing with the kids at dinner. “DH is back,” I thought to myself. Everything is going to be OK.