Thursday, June 23
when the Mr. Wookie falls ill.
It's a rare moon when the ailments hit the Wookie & Co. household. When in Virginia (or Vagina as some call it -*ahem* "some" being myself), the illnesses there were ruthless. This Oregonian mountainwoman couldn't stand up to the bugs and diseases that plague the Eastern Seaboard. Those bugs not only commute straight to your lymph nodes, they bring their best friends to drag down your soul so you can't wait for the next duty station to get your butt out of there.
California's been kind. Much kinder.
I caught a 24-hour bug a couple weeks ago that resulted in sniffles. That's it. Hour #25, I felt like Rocky on the steps ready to take on the world. And by that I mean I wasn't forcing myself to down medication with beer (habits die hard). What I'm saying is I'm a champion.
But when illness claims Mr. Wookie instead, it's a different story. He's not your typical man. He doesn't whine like a woman in labor. He laments. Silently...on the couch, preferring to rot on his own accord than wish help from anyone.
When I'm sick, I want the world to bend over backwards and rub my feet. So when Mr. Wookie is sick, I'm allupinhisface. "Are you okay? Do you want food? Do you want chicken noodle soup? Do you want crackers? Are you hot? Are you cold? Want me to draw you a bath?"
Yes, my "love language" is doing things. This means whether it's holding your hair while you curse the tequila shots or doing your laundry after your firstborn, I'm there.