On Tuesday, Miss Aussome made a list of 21 Things She Irrationally Loved, and one of them was “to quote The Lord of the Rings whenever she was late somewhere.” Well, I’m not quite ready to make my own “21 Things” post, but using LOTR for real life is definitely what’s happening this week.
I’ve always thought of my husband as my very own personal Hobbit. He’s on the petite side, with slightly fuzzy stub feet. He loves food, and the comforts of staying at home — but enjoys the thrill of adventure every once in awhile.
And since last Thursday, he’s been a little emotional.
It all started a week ago, when a crown and half a rotten tooth inside it decided to fall out of his face. He’d had it taken care of in 1998, but unfortunately, last December’s x-rays could not determine the status of the tooth inside the cap. I had a picture, but I won’t do that to you. Just imagine some black rot chunks hanging out in your mouth until the dentist can squeeze you in to get the rest of the root pulled out.
Steve, bless his soul, despises the dentist more than anything. I think he would change poopy diapers every day if it meant he never had to go to the dentist ever again. And, before he married me, he managed to get away with not going to the dentist for 14 years. Being in Canada and being self-employed means that when it comes to dental insurance, other priorities take over.
Last Thursday, the surgery was finally able to take place, and since then, everything has been terrible.
First, there was, you know, SURGERY.
And then having a frozen face with bloody, saliva-infested gauze chillin in his mouth.
And then soup FOR DAYS.
And then CANKER SORES in the cheek directly making contact with the battle wound every time he breathes.
So of course, he needs comfort, and rest, and patience, and compassion and I’m just like
But I’ve bucked up, made all the meals, washed all the laundry, cleaned all the things for a straight week now, by myself, because he’s not supposed to “get his heart rate up.” I even made him Cinnamon Toast Crunch muffins, because they’re soft and warm and easily freezable if necessary.
When I brought to him a fresh-out-of-the-oven muffin, he took one bite and I kid you not: tears filled his eyes, goosebumps rose on his arms, and he smiled for the first time in 3 days. He was so happy. Jokingly I said, “Based on your reaction, am I to gather that these muffins are better than sex?”
Then HE says: “…maaaaybe?”
Now you have to understand, that BEFORE he had to deal with all of this, I made him one of my best chocolate cake recipes, sans quinoa, and half of it is still sitting in my only cake pan. So, dude’s got lots of soft treats to comfort him that I normally would try to monitor. So when we demolished the muffins a couple days later, Steve asked for fresh brownies. But I had already checked the chocolate cake, and it was definitely still edible. Chocolatey, moist, pretty much a brownie, right?
This exchange has continued AND escalated in the past few days, all the while the cake sits uneaten and the brownies unmade. The hobbit has now had his stitches removed, leaving behind a gaping hole and a canker sore roughly the same size. The Motrin is almost gone, we’re running low on salt due to mouth cleansing exercises, and still we argue.
He has tried to bribe me with unexpected sexual favours AND a shiny new cake pan.
According to him, this will be his fate:
And I’m just like “Hey, let’s try to keep the REST of your teeth inside your head for a bit.”
I’m sure things will calm down eventually. He’ll go back to work tomorrow, and I’ll have a day to relax before I babysit 4 boys under the age of 10 for 8 hours. I’ve had some good practice this week, and after all, I AM NO MAN.