It’s 1:01 a.m. when my iPhone lights up the bedroom to let me know some asshole wants to text in the middle of the night. It turns out the asshole is our nanny’s husband. He’s texting to let me know Joan has succumbed to an inimical stomach bug and won’t be able to watch the babies that day.
Like many stomach bugs, this one’s getting around pretty quickly, kind of like the viral equivalent of Wilt Chamberlain. Two hours after I get the text, I’m doubled over the toilet alternating between bouts of diarrhea and vomit. I can’t shake it. It’s the least awesome I’ve felt in years, like there’s a wet towel lodged in my gut and I’m wringing it out with every heave.
I check in with Ashley. She’s not feeling particularly well either, but as the only one of us who hasn’t knelt before the porcelain thrown, she’s our last and only hope to care for the babies. She’s also our most expensive. Due to America’s egregious maternity leave standards, Ashley had to use all of her vacation days, all of her sick days, and then borrow from the sick bank to stay with our babies during their first three months. So now, for a substitute teacher to cover her classes for a day, Ashley will have $200 docked from her paycheck.
For that amount, I figure I can suck it up and play Super Dad for a few hours. But when I go to fix the 6:00 a.m. bottles, I end up nursing a Diet Sprite on the kitchen floor instead. As much as I hate to have her do it, Ashley makes the call and requests a sub. I waddle (defeated) back to bed.
When you have twin babies, $200 means a lot. It’s over 1,000 diapers; 2,000 ounces of formula; or 11,000 wipes. It’s also one day home with two babies and a sick husband. I’d say the potential for buyer’s remorse is pretty high, but we won’t know for sure until the end of the month.