I’m just going to bitch a bit, ok?

In my previous post, I said I was going to spare you the details of my cold.  Well, I lied.  I feel like crap and I feel like bitching, so in no particular order, here goes:

• This cold isn’t playing fair.  Usually it starts in the throat and invades either to the north (sinuses) or the south (chest and lungs).  This time it attacked on all fronts, including east and west (both ears).  If there were a Geneva Convention for antibiotic-resistant illnesses, this cold would be in full violation.

• Nursing when you have a cold just plain sucks.  When you’re sick, you want to curl up in a fetal position and moan softly to yourself, When-Harry-Met-Sally-style.  The last thing you want to do is attach an infant land-shark to your boobs (actually, in my family we call them Jewbs) so she can methodically drain what’s left of your weakened soul in 8-minute segments, 3-4 sucks at a time.

• Even worse, I can’t take cold medicine.  Normally when faced with symptoms as bad as these, I drug the crap out of myself until I have the functionality of a drunk zombie.  For the past 14 months, I’ve been limited to ibuprofen, neti-potting, and one measly dose of antihistamine at night.

• Finally, you would think that having this cold would exempt me from all baby-related duties.  And it almost does.  My husband has been amazing – he cleaned out the entire kitchen for Pesach (usually my job), started cooking for the Seder (definitely not my job, but he still gets points for starting so early), took F for a walk yesterday, and plays with her whenever possible.  But the reality is, when she’s tired or fussy, she’s more quickly soothed in my arms.  (That’s not to say her Daddy can’t soothe her – he definitely can – it’s just a faster process with me.)  And honestly, who can blame her?  When I’m fussy, I would love nothing better than to snuggle up to three soft, squishy pillows (by which I mean my firm, perky breasts and 6-pack abs, of course) that smell like my mother’s pasta with meat sauce and brownie ala mode all in one.  But when I’m sick, it’s hard to remember to sanitize my hands every time I blow my nose , or always cough into my right elbow, as F prefers to bury her head in my left one.  Left to my own devices, I’d much rather wallow in my own germs and filth, drunk-zombie style.

• Now, the truth is, things aren’t totally horrible.  My daughter is healthy. (She seems to have inherited her father’s immune system, rather than the lemon I got.  Apparently G-d was playing used-car-salesman on the day I was born… and now the warranty is up.)  My husband is cleaning , cooking, and feeding me.  I made a library run last week so I have plenty of books.  Really, other than the copious amounts of snot I’m producing and the various side-effects associated with the aforementioned production, things aren’t that bad.  But I still want to bitch about it.