I've seen the light.

You know how people who pass on to the other side and somehow make it back return with their perspective totally changed and a new outlook on life?  I think that sort-of happened to me this morning.

I have been battling some vile mixture of bronchitis and sinus infection topped with a healthy serving of fever and weakness for about a week. Last night was the worst. I literally could not get up off of the sofa.  I called my darling husband and told him that he had to pick the baby up from daycare because I simply could not get dressed and drive across town.  As he is so good at doing in crisis situation, he "jumped-to" and shuffled the preschooler home, switched cars, and went to pick up the baby.  

45 minutes later he was home with burgers and fries for everyone.  And...not just a burger for me, a cheeseburger.  He has, in the past, argued the take-out cheese issue with me.  He can't fathom paying .59 at Whataburger for a greasy slice of pasteurized processed cheese food when we have a big pile of them in the fridge at home.  But I don't WANT a kraft single on my Whataburger. I want the original melty cheese slice that is native to the burger itself. I don't want a cold stiff slice of cheese. You can't microwave it to melt it without removing all the vegetables, which is a pain in the ass, and even if you did, the bun would be petrified by the time you reached prime melting temp of the cheese. In my opinion, .59 is a bargain.

And, the fries... A big steaming box of fries.  Hubby and I have had french fry issues, too. In fact, I still have, posted on the fridge, a cut-out piece of a Whataburger wrapper that reads "The fries rarely make it all the way home."  Now, while it sounds funny and joke-like, let me assure you that it was not magnet-ed to the fridge as a joke any more than democrats put Bush stickers on their compact hybrids to joke about our President.  It was done in a cold rage...you know, the kind that comes from a sting so deep that you can't even form words about it?  The kind of hurt that arises from being denied a hot crispy french fry to accompany your cold-kraft-single-from-the-fridge-burger. grrrrr.

So last night, I was served a hot, dry, native-cheese Whataburger with french fries and the very last Diet Coke out of the fridge.  It almost didn't even matter that he dropped the diet coke on the tile floor before serving, or that I could hardly taste the meal with my sinuses in their broken condition.  The kids were at their places, eating quietly, and my husband was flitting about taking care of all of us while I watched Dr. Phil from the sofa. I mean, It was totally a Queen of Sheba moment.  This continued all night. If I needed something, he jumped. No lumbering, no deep sighs, no pregnant pause while he finished what he was doing on his iphone. Magical, perfect attentiveness all night long.

So, of course, I had to test the waters.  I'm a woman, after all. And I do this for a living, right?  

K- "Would you make me some chocolate chip cookies?"

S- (hopping to the fridge) "Sure, honey. Where is that tube of dough stuff?"

K-  "We don't have any. You would have to make them."

S-   "You mean, like, from scratch?"

K-  (giggling inside) "Yep, but it's not hard."

S-  (looking around for his keys) "I'll be right back"

K- "No, No, No...honey... don't go to Walmart. By the time you do that you could have mixed it all up. It's ok, you don't have to."

S- "It will only take a minute."

K- "You can't leave me here with these children. We might not all be alive when you get back."

S-  "Where is the recipe?"

My husband broke out the Kitchen Aid and made home-made oatmeal chocolate chip cookies from scratch with nothing but a little direction from the impaired arm-chair Betty Crocker in the living room.  It was slightly hysterical at times.  Mostly when Harrisen drug his Learning Tower over to "help", as baking is our thing.  Scot couldn't quite deal with the chemistry of cookies and toddler "help" at the same time. I'm sure Harrisen was kinda confused.  Evangeline shrieking and hanging onto his legs was another high point.  I did rouse myself from my sofa long enough to disengage her from his lower body, as that's enough to make me postal, and he was already maxing out in the patience category.  

In the end, my husband produced a crispy-yet-chewy cookie that could have won some award, especially since he admitted that he had "probably never" in his 52 years made cookies from scratch, and if he had, he couldn't remember it.

So, I'm feeling better this morning. I'm sure it was a combination of greasy junk food and unconditional love.  These are the things I learned after coming back from the brink:

*cookie sheets can be used upside down with no noticeable deterioration in cookie quality.

*a little Clorox spray will dissolve petrified mustard/bun/pickle mixture from a high chair tray.

*stainless steel sinks are not always stainless, but steel wool helps.

*the same double, undermount, stainless sink set, at full capacity, holds three full dishwasher loads. 

*a dirty diaper left out overnight on the sofa table is really no different from one 30 feet away in an open trash can, odor wise.

*a three year old can pass for bathed with a wet wipe and hair gel.

*I am blessed beyond all measure with a husband who may not do it just like I do it, but is cheerful and willing to do it when I need him.

Three cheers, Scotty-boy. You rock.