This just in: I am selfish. And lazy--don't forget that part.

At about 4 this morning, I was lying in bed, vaguely awake. I think I was stirring cause I knew Grace would be waking up soon to eat, and my body has this annoying habit of waking in anticipation of that. Anyway, there I lay. There I lie? Lay. Whatever--there I be.

Then I heard Ava calling for us. She has been waking some at night since we got back from our trip, complaining about bad dreams. I think it's the residue of jet lag and overtiredness. I waited to see if Jason would wake up. He didn't. She called again. I thought, I really don't want to have to get up with her now and then again with Grace in the next 20 minutes or so. So--and tell me if you've ever done this, I woke Jason up. My soundly sleeping husband, who is always willing to get up to the kids. I was already awake--but I just didn't feel like moving. So I called his name till he awakened. Awoke? Whatever--he done opened his eyes.

Being the total mensch that he is, he immediately got out of bed and staggered down the hall. Any parents reading this are familiar with the 4am Stagger. You are unsteady on your feet, not fully awake, weaving back and forth. You would totally bomb a roadside sobriety test at this point.

In his weariness, he kicked the you-know-what out of a wooden box sitting in the hallway. It's a box of Grace's clothes that I'm sorting through and had temporarily left there. I heard him kick it--hard. Then I heard him go check on Ava. Then he didn't come back to bed. I waited. Five minutes went by. I got up and went downstairs. Jason was sitting on the kitchen floor looking through our first aid kit. He had totally split open his big toe on that stupid box! It looked nasty.

I felt awful. I'd been awake, I could've gone to Ava instead of asking Jase to, and I probably wouldn't have kicked the box. (Jason has a tendency to run into things--a story or stories for another post.) He asked for some pain medicine. I gave him some and then went back to bed, with him following soon after.

I woke up at 7 this morning to find that he'd had a bad reaction to the pain meds (they had codeine in them) and thrown up. While I slept on. Then--and this is the part that we both laughed at when he told me--he felt so bad he lay down on the kitchen floor, knowing he needed to eat something. That codeine on an empty stomach was bad news. But he felt too bad to stand up. So he scooted on his back over to the cabinet and grabbed the peanut butter and a piece of bread. There's Jason--it's 5:30 or 6 in the morning, his toe is stinging and aching, he's puking, and he's laying on his back in the kitchen eating a peanut butter sandwich. Oh, the memories you cherish.

Fortunately, I was considerate and gracious enough to get up with the kids and get them ready for school this morning so he could sleep in a bit. I know. Aren't I so benevolent? He is lucky to have me.

And for the next day or two, he'll remember that with every step he takes.