Twas not a good night in the house of York.
Jax woke up about 1:30 with a 102 degree fever, burning up like he hasn't in such a long time. I should have known it was coming. It's been too long since someone was really sick, we were due.
Shawn was still closing the restaurant, not that it would have mattered, so I gave him so medicine, put a cold rag on his head, and took up my place alongside him in bed.
About 15 minutes later, Shawn gets home, finds me with Jax, and I give him the bad news.
"Did you give him some medicine?"
I love questions like these, don't you, ladies? I know he's trying to be thoughtful, and his motives are merely concern for his son, but are you serious?? Ugghhh.
Anyway, I assure him that the retard he's left in charge of his kids all these years has taken care of everything, and he should just go to bed. So he does.
Then around 4:30 am, I wake up as Jax is thrashing around at the opposite end of the bed, feel his much much cooler forehead, re-tuck him in and creep my way back to my bed.
Not 10 minutes later, Ryan comes stomping in, heavy with sleep, complaining that she can't turn her music on and could I please come and fix it for her.
Sure, who wants sleep anyway? So overrated.
But I do sleep until 6:30 when Jax is up again, and both kids are begging for cereal.
3 hours later, and I'm running the bath water for Ryan, telling Jax not to get in the bathtub, and walk to our room to get Shawn up for church. 2 seconds later, Ryan cries out, "Mom! Jax is in the tub! In his pajamas! And his DIAPER!!"
Holy Jesus, that child is lucky he is sick and it is Sunday.
Anyway, Shawn comes down about 10 am, dressed and ready, waiting for me to finish cooking his bacon and eggs.
He grabs me in a big bear hug, kisses me and says, "How are ya, babe?"
"I'm PMS'ing," I reply.
"Awww, shit," he says, pulling away.
"Thanks for the support, baby."