On Christmas Eve, I could feel a cold coming on. You know the feeling: way in the back of your throat, before it's actually sore you feel a bit of a scratchy, tickly feeling and you just know you're getting sick. I have to admit, I wasn't really surprised. When I saw the green goop coming out of Morgan's nose a few days before, I figured it was only a matter of time before I'd catch whatever was going around. And then when she kissed me and got some of that green goop on my lips, I knew there was no escaping THE COLD.
Christmas morning was fabulous, and I have never had as much fun opening presents as I had watching Morgan tear into hers. As the morning went on, however, I started feeling worse. Much worse. By noon, I was fairly certain I was dying. Aside from the sore throat and runny nose, my body was aching and I was already starting to cough quite a bit. Then my back started hurting. A lot. The pain spread to my stomach and eventually it even worked it's way down to my thighs. It reminded me of... hmmm, what would be a good example? Oh yeah, it reminded me of that one time I spent twenty hours giving birth to a baby.
By this point, I was really worried. I knew it was more than just a cold, but on a weekend -- make that Christmas weekend -- my only option for medical care would be the emergency room. Although I was at that very moment writing my Last Will and Testament, I wasn't entirely sure an ER trip was warranted. So I took some ibuprofen and went to bed. And when I woke up four hours later, it all made sense. Now, I know for a fact that there are some men who read this blog and might be very uncomfortable if I said that I was experiencing my first post-baby period (Hi, Grandpa!) so I'll just say: it turns out I wasn't dying. I just forgot what it's like to be a woman.
And I'm glad I didn't jump the gun on that whole emergency room thing.