On Saturday night, the baby woke up at 10PM and threw up all over me. He’s not a spitty baby, so this augured Bad Things. Sure enough, when I woke up Sunday morning, everyone else’s breakfast smelled like compost, and that’s where I’m going to end the TMI.
My Patient Husband and I seem to have worked out an agreement long ago: we don’t both get sick at the same time. In general, I wait for a weekend to get sick, whereas he gets sick whenever he feels like it, but never at the same time. I spent Sunday in bed while he kid-herded, until he informed me right around dinner that it was high time for me to get well because it was his turn.
While I begged to differ, there was no choice. I dragged myself downstairs and informed them that instead of the nutritious home-made meal their father had planned, they were having “a terrible diner,” which would consist of sandwiches, a bag of Those Coveted Chips we save for guests, and a fruit. I listed three choices of fruit.
Kiddo#3 said, “Pears are fruit.”
Pears also weren’t on the list of suggested fruits.
But you know those lightning bolt moments? Where something just sounds right? Suddenly, I knew I needed a fruit. And not just any fruit, but canned pears. I have no idea why: don’t sick people want toast and tea? But after five pregnancies, I firmly believe that the human body tells us what it needs, and I had been told.
Despite the fact that I hadn’t eaten a canned pear in maybe five years. Quite possibly ten. While I like them a lot, I simply don’t buy them. It’s easier to just eat a fruit.
But, because God looks out for fools, drunks, the United States of America, and me, guess what was in the basement? A BJs-sized case of canned pear halves. Because when I’d been at BJs last week, I’d seen them and thought, for the first time in years, “Those would be good for the food pantry.”
I had one. (Kiddo#1 had one pear-half too.) There were four more in the can, but while I believe in the wisdom of the body, I’m also not stupid. On the other hand, that one silly canned half-pear turned the corner for me. Within an hour, I felt fine. Tired, but fine. Two hours later, I’d eaten the rest.
Call me crazy, but I bet God wanted me to “steal” that can of pears. To prove a point after all the hullabaloo about last week’s ketchup. Because God wants good things for the poor, definitely. But I guess, sometimes, God also wants good things for me.
Please pray that the rest of us don’t get sick.