"For you I would bring a bouquet of chocolate Reese cups"

I flung back the quilt my great-grandma had made and pulled myself up off the couch. I tromped dramatically to our bedroom, flung myself on the bed beside a soundly sleeping Justin, and promptly burst into tears. Ugly, sobbing tears. Julia Roberts crying scene kinda tears. The kind of irrational, incoherent "Don't talk about me like I'm not here" Steel Magnolia tears that only a sleepless night of sickness can bring.

After feeling so much better for the past couple of days and finally thinking I had this thing kicked, it came back out of hiding last night to rear its ugly head with all the force of a preemptive air strike. I tossed. I turned. I fluffed my pillow. My throat felt like I had taken up sword swallowing in my spare time. And breathing took all the effort of running a 10k marathon. Three episodes of "Without A Trace" later I finally drifted off into a fitful slumber for a grand total of three hours. Three whole hours. I was miserable. And misery loves company.

"What's wrong little one?"

Despite desperately wanting to give an articulate account of the hours that stretched behind me, I just sobbed louder. He smiled a little, kissed my forehead, and pulled the quilt up around me. It's a good quilt.

"I'll go get you some orange juice."

He came back from the corner store, bags in hand, and proceeded to shuffle things around in the kitchen. He was in there for what seemed like forever and I started to whimper again. Finally he came in carrying my orange juice-Airborne morning mimosa....and this. A bouquet of chocolate reese cups. Now that's just what the doctor ordered.