This morning my husband went back to work for the first time in 16 days.  I love him dearly, but it was time.  Even if he felt like one of those cartoon characters that when he drinks water you expect the water to come out all 7 of the holes in his abdomen. 

I wish I was an artist.  That would be a very funny picture.

He's back to his wicked ways.  Even though he is supposed to be drinking his meals through a straw, he managed to get a french fry stuck in his throat yesterday.  I slowly sipped my root beer as he doubled over in the middle of the restaurant.  People began to turn around.  Little did they know that the Heimlich will no longer work on him.  At least I don't think it will.  I continued to munch on the fries (I didn't order them but by God, we paid $1.75 for them and someone had better eat them).  The fry apparently went down his throat and entered the pea-sized hole that is the entrance to his stomach and I reached deep down to feel mercy.  And there was none.  For the past 12 days I have coddled, cajoled, begged, pleaded, stressed, fretted and no one really cares.  All those high calorie/high quality homemade milkshakes with fresh strawberry or blackberry puree, jacked up with high potassium bananas, chased with a "that was nice, thanks."  Conversations about not getting hungry because when you get hungry you tend to inhale food rather than actually chew it.  Let's not cloud the issue with the fact that you shouldn't even NEED to chew because now you should be drinking. 

But he went back to work today.  And not a day too soon.  Any more time home and The Boy and I would have died of exhaustion.  All the trips to the park and the playground and the lake and the zoo.  I crashed on the couch and The Boy crawled right up on top of my big fat belly.

K:  Dad keeps us too busy.  I'm tired.
E:  Os, Mama.

With that we fell asleep.  We slept so hard we slept through Jennifer's phone call.  The phone call she made because after taking care of her 4 week old baby, making dinner and repotting all her plants, she was a little bored.

She made dinner?  I still don't make dinner and my child is 21 months old.  I don't know how some people do it. 

Four hours later, The Boy and I woke up.  Just in time to pick up Dad from the train station.  It's nice to be back to our wicked ways too.