Praying to the Procelain God

Ah, whoever named it morning sickness, I'd like to ring that person's neck. It should be named every waking moment, every smell, every food, sickness. But thank heaven for Zofran, a wonderful miracle pill that is keeping me out of the hospital this time. My husband and kids have also been fantastic the whole time. It takes a special guy to come home from billing 8.5 hours a day to a wrecked house, kids watching TV all afternoon, your wife moaning on the couch, no kiss or hug because that immediately sends her sprinting to the bathroom, and fixing dinner out of an empty fridge because he of course is the only one who can set foot in a grocery store. Then he also gets to clean the house, do the dishes, do the shopping, fold the laundry because the smell of fabric softener once again sends his wife running to the bathroom. And then he gets to go to bed on the far side of the bed so he won't breathe on his less than lovely wife, don't even think about a little loving. My self sufficient kids can make their own bread and cheese, get cookies, change DVD's and my 4 year old even attempted his own hot chocolate. But then I look at my kids and I get all teary, it's the hormones - I do it at Zales commercials too, and I think "You were worth it." Plus it's wonderful guilt trip fodder for when they are older.