A Cruel Irony

My little Marshmellon is seven days old today! My postpartum recovery is going remarkably well. I can walk around and everything, and I am wearing regular pants and everything. My baby is extra cute, too. Want to see?

He is so gorgeous and adorable and I love him. The Squeaker hasn't exhibited many signs of sibling rivalry, and loves to give the baby kisses. In fact, everything would be wonderful (as in, sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows kind of wonderful) if I didn't have this horrible debilitating cold.

I barely slept all weekend, not because the Marshmellon was keeping me up at night, but because my throat was so sore I could barely swallow. I won't gross you out with details, suffice to say that I haven't been this sick since August 2002. I went to the doctor today expecting him to give me a round of antibiotics or something (it is a REALLY bad cold. I am not even joking.) and do you know what he said?

"Take sudefed."

I suppose it is good to have the peace of mind that the Marshmellon isn't in particular danger of catching what I have or dying from it, but I still kind of feel as though I have wasted a good deal of time and energy for something trivial. Of course, the way I have been feeling, it certainly doesn't feel trivial. I think a good description would be "death warmed over." Or perhaps something more dramatic. "

In the last four days, I have cried more than one time. "I can't do this when I'm sick! Everything would be so awesome if only I didn't have boogers coming out of my EYEBALLS!" (Too much information, perhaps? Oh, well.)

When the Squeaker was born, I had difficulties getting around and doing things because of childbirth-related things that required some healing time. But I'm doing great in that department. No problems at all. If I'm going to be miserable after giving birth, I think I would rather it be childbirth related instead of cold-related. It is a cruel irony. I  have the sniffles from Hades.