Shawn and I were both sick all weekend and then I started to feel better and he started to feel worse. I tried to be sympathetic (I did!) but part of me (okay, almost all of me) was convinced that he was putting one on. To get out of doing the dishes.
Yes, I am a gem of a wife, I know.
In my defense, Shawn really hates doing the dishes so I end up doing them most of the time. But then I get to a point where I cannot even look at another dirty dish and I announce that next time the dishes need to be washed, it's his turn.
On Monday I came home from work and the kitchen was still a mess so I did a little grumbling and reheated some soup and added the pot to the pile of dirty dishes. And thought spiteful thoughts of how the pile of dishes was only going to grow the longer he was "sick."
And then Shawn stayed home from work on Tuesday, which he never does.
And went to the doctor on his own accord, which he never does.
And then his doctor started throwing around words like pneumonia and bronchial inflammation and fluid in the lungs.
Basically I am a giant jerkface is what I'm saying.
And I washed the dishes last night.