Something to do with gender roles?

I would not make a very good caretaker/nurse/whatever.

Irish is sick, probably with the same cold I had a few weeks ago. And last night, I was doing a really good job of coddling him, forcing him to take Tylenol and shoot Emergen-C and drink tea and sleep under all the blankets (because I believe that care-taking is an act of force: when I'm sick, I don't want to be asked whether I'd like something; I want to be told, "Here, drink this"). This morning, I sent him off to work, with a few final attempts: Do you want to call in sick? Do you want to trade shifts so you can sleep in for a few more hours? I was shot down on both ("I need the money"), administered some DayQuil, and figured my job was done until 10:00 tonight when I'll get home.

A few hours later, I sent a text to see how he was feeling, and I get this: "Like crap. [Manager] says he might let me go home an hour early, but he has to see."

Now this is where I get frustrated. Because suddenly my role has to change from caretaker to, I guess, cheerleader. How can I be full of "aw, poor baby"s one minute, and the next have to remind him that he said he needs the money? Or that I was sick and miscarrying and, despite being a little whiny and unstable, was still at work, working, for every hour of every shift?

I don't feel like I do well with Irish when he's sick, even though I try (I made Jell-O!), because it reminds me of Lui's hypochondria, how there was always something, and how babying or being babied became so much the norm that it wasn't a desirable thing anymore. I think I'd do better in a "real" situation, but for a cold? You get like one day before I'm like, "Yeah ok, but Vicks makes miracle drugs. Take some, feel better, can we go back to our lives now?" And I think he's gonna want more than one day here. And then I'll feel bad for my callousness.

And ok, for the blunt honesty? I want to be the weaker sex. With Lui, I wasn't. We were equals, more or less, but I always felt like the stronger person - and he surprised me when he held so strong in our breakup, stronger than I did, or at least he wasn't letting on, even though I was the one who'd pushed for it and I was the one with the new boyfriend to distract me. I want to be the one who needs to be held and protected, because, let's face it, most of the time I do. So when my "big strong man" is suddenly reduced to a big baby, it's a major turn-off, and sends me looking for another "big strong man" to give me attention, albeit harmless and for-the-moment, because, well, somebody needs to make me feel like a woman around here!

It's time

Let's just say there was a mess. And that the mess took place (where else? what else do I talk about here?) in my vagina. Or more accurately this time, in my uterus.

Non-babies. Twins that didn't grow. Two blighted ova, which is almost unheard of. Five weeks of waiting, agonizing, grieving, and ultimately anger and frustration as I kept hearing, "Let's wait one more week to make sure." And then, finally, what I didn't want, a week of miscarrying: bleeding, cramping, extreme nausea just before one of the empty sacs, in it's entirely, fell into the toilet. The next morning, a quick, easy (longtime planned) D&C surgery, followed by more (lighter) bleeding, more abstinence, more feeling crazy as my hormones plummeted back to their normal (textbook abnormal) levels.

Yesterday - maybe a day or two before, but definitely yesterday - I finally felt like myself again. Sex sounded desirable for the first time in six weeks. And for the first time in six weeks, I didn't bleed. I can drink again, too, without worrying that it'll make me sick. I can take a joke again, I can handle people at work again (I mean, as much as I ever could). I want to go to the gym again, if not today, then tomorrow for sure.

I feel like I had a life-changing experience. A near-death whatever, but without the death part. Just, sort of a wake-up call. Irish is starting manager training, so we can afford our future, eventual, years-from-now-if-we're-careful-but-you-know-we-probably-won't-be children. I've resolved to spend less of my free time playing online solitaire and watching TV that I'm not really interested in, and more time blogging, reading, drinking warm beverages (or, you know, red wine), maybe working on the Christmas stocking that I started for Lui two years ago (because he said, when I moved out, that he'd still like to have it if I ever felt like finishing it, and it doesn't feel so awkward anymore, and I feel like maybe I owe him that). And I want to get my pre-divorce body back, the awesome one that I had when I was so unhappy and spent all my time in the gym so I wouldn't have to be at home. I want to take more naked pictures while I've still got it, before I really start to fall apart from age or motherhood. I want to make myself the most important person in my world. Irish can be second, and we'll go from there.

(I need recommendations on good, cheap mascara, too, because I can't afford Lancôme anymore, and when it comes to beauty regime frivolous spending, I've got to pick my battles, and as always, I pick hair removal.)