Over the past few days recovering from my wretched wisdom teeth surgery, I've learned a few things.
First, my body doesn't like narcotics very much. You never have to worry about me scouring the market for recreational prescription drugs. What I was prescribed, however weak and lame my husband insisted they were, left me nauseous, vomiting, and unable to eat.
Second, I can not tolerate eating bland, boring soft foods. By the fourth day I was licking the cool ranch off the Doritos. I've been forced to watch Hatta eat two subs since my surgery. The first a juicy cheeseburger sub on a crunchy roll, with sourdough pretzels on the side. The second a chicken cheesesteak. And even though they screwed up his order and added mayo, I would have maimed to have eaten that sub. Like a death row inmate, I'm already creating my "last meal" list, though I suppose in this situation it should be called my "first meals."
Third, in my absence, my daughter will exist on cheese and crackers. I'm not sure why, but she ate cheese and crackers at nearly every meal.
And finally, I learned the exact number of days of my husbands stay at home dad/caretaker threshold. Two. Just two. The first two days of my recovery, Hatta was stellar. He was doting on me and there for my every need, while he was executing the upmost patience with Alice. On the third day, everything changed. He still offered to help me out and he still took care of Alice's needs, though now everything was met with a sigh and an exasperated tone. He was exhausted and out of patience. I listened to him deteriorate as the days went by. I felt for him. He was out of his element. He was in my world now, and I can honestly say, he's not cut out for it. But I do commend him for putting forth a valiant effort. He really was spot on those first two days.