Peanut Gallery

So there are times when being married to someone who deals with the gnarliest, nastiest of emergencies day in and day out is a perk. Some days it's annoying as hell.

Yesterday, I woke up with this unshakable need to clean. Everything. So I did. I even hauled laundry downstairs. Bosley kept giving me the you're-gonna-get-in-trouble stare as I worked my way through two stories of the house. See, I promised Dave I wouldn't do any housework that requires bending, lifting, or smelly cleaners until after the baby gets here. Bosley knew it. I knew it. But I did it anyway.

And then I got sick. My nose gushed like you would not believe. It looked like someone botched a surgery in our powder room. (Quick digression--doesn't powder room sound so snooty?) While I was trying to stem the blood flow, I started having Braxton-Hicks contractions. One of them actually hurt so I'm fairly certain it was a real contraction since B-H don't hurt.

I called Dave but he didn't answer. That's normal since he's typically dealing with a patient whenever I get the urge to dial. By the time he called back, I'd kicked back in a recliner, gulped a gallon of water, and had finally stopped bleeding and/or contracting. Of course, as I'm trying to explain this to him, he's asking questions. For some reason, his partner seemed to think he needed to jump in on the conversation and offer me all kinds of unwanted advice. So then I got snippy. Like pregnant hippo snippy.

That is one of the worst parts of being married to a medic. Everyone in the peanut gallery needs to chime in with their own version of treatment. It's so annoying.