High Talker

If you followed my blog yesterday, you may recall that I described myself in Spartan-esque glory. I said something about having a hard time waging sympathy for my husband who was sick. This was on account of having pushed out three offspring- two of them by natural labor, which is the ancient method of begging your midwife to either kill you or give you drugs during the last stretch of labor, while she coaches you to victory. Midwives rock! 

The part about natural labor is true, and I’d do it again, but one thing you should know about me is that I’m of the southern variety known as high-talker, but only with the best intentions. You see, I actually believed those things about myself yesterday morning, when all my wits were intact. Since then, I have succumbed to the evil legion of influenza, which hath no mercy, and I am begging for sympathy. Truth be told, I have no desire  to stylize myself as invincible – that is a hideous predicament of the male species…which is, actually, kind of cute and comforting.  

Here I lay, while Dora The Explorer teaches my other two offspring how to speak Spanish via Netflix re-runs. My husband is currently away at work with our first-born. He had to carry our son to the pediatrician this afternoon, then had no choice but to take him back to his office to get a lot of work accomplished. Yesterday, the boy’s shoulder got dislocated. While attending a home school co-op class, next to the mosque, he and another child were imitating luchadores, leading up to the injury.

Fortunately, there was a qualified expert in attendance, a doctor-mom, who knows how to remain calm in the midst of another freaked-out mom. I was running back and forth from the front porch, communicating with his pediatrician, whose receptionist was asking me repeatedly, and lethargically, to phonetically spell our boy’s very Arab last name. Thank God my doctor-friend knew what to do. She saved the day. Our son went to the doctor this afternoon to see about an X-ray. Now, we are looking at a future appointment with an orthopedic specialist. Yeah! All-in-all, though, it looks like he is going to be fine and he is not in any pain.

So, I’m home in bed, eating yesterday’s words and pitifully suffering. I am calling my very Arab husband ever so often to impress upon him my delicate condition. I’ve also asked him to rush home to rescue me, which does not look like he will anytime soon. 

This message is for you, very Arab husband, from your high-talker, collard green Muslim wife:

If you happen to read this, I think you should come home right away and bring a caravan-load of sympathy. Could you also make me some hot chicken soup (with sage and a lemon on the side), plus a warm crusty French baguette?  I think I might be dying. Thanks!