stomach bugs and Mr. Darcy

This weekend was my dear friend Connie's 30th birthday! We were to hit the big Apple as only art school chums can, and I was so thrilled to give her this most recent project as a gift to her: ---well if sodding Blogger would let the pictures get put up, you could see a lovely red handbag in Tunisian crochet, which I spent a great deal of time and energy on (even had cramped thumbs at one point! oh the pain of art!). Anyhow, it will be up sometime and you may admire it for yourself. And perhaps dear Connie may see it before it is in her possession.

Because the key words here are "we" and "were." My body had quite different plans for where I was to spend the weekend, and it involved much time in the bathroom or lying in bed. I was finally hit with the stomach bug that has been plaguing everyone of my acquaintance, with children or no. It does no good to point fingers, since I thought it a near miracle that A hasn't been sick all winter, and neither had I really--just the malaise of post-counseling exhaustion--while everyone else has had some sort of snotty flu or other. I was just waiting for our turn, and congratulating myself on taking vitamins regularly, when D got sick this week and then I. He was always so good at sharing.

Last night A woke up after an hour or so of sleep, and was covered in puke when I went in to see what was wrong. Two bears, blankets, sheets, and the crib tent that keeps him from plummeting to his death were hit full-on. D was very kind to do most of the scouring, while I gave the poor kid a bath. He was so shocked, since he really hadn't vomited since his nursing days, when that was a thrice-daily occurrence. So he just looked up at me and said, "Mommy, I barf."

So how did I employ my own very rare and ever-so-leisurely hours of sickness? Sleeping, moaning, doing rather unpleasant things, and watching/reading Pride and Prejudice. We bought the special edition A and E version last week, starring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle, and I was so excited to see it again. The last time we saw it was the Valentine's Day when A was about 4 months old. I re-read the book in the Fall, and re-read the best bits again today, while A rested next to me on the sofa (which he never does normally without treading on me, hitting me accidentally in the eye, or squashing very tender parts of myself with his elbows. Today, though, he was nearly immobile).

P and P has been mentioned once or twice in my blog before, and I really can't help it. I think it may be my favorite romance of all time. I feel such an affinity with Elizabeth Bennet, in both good and embarrassing ways. My family may not be quite as silly and capricious as hers, but I did feel much closer to my father, and saw him as resignedly looking on at the sometimes ridiculous behaviour of my mother or sisters. Instead of retiring to his study, though, he would go to the basement and smoke. He too had the worry of marrying off several daughters, but luckily for us there was no estate to entail ( luckily?).

Even more than the family similarities, some bits of my early relationship with D had a striking resemblance to Eliza and Mr. Darcy's. I didn't hate him so much as fear him initially, when we were in high school. He certainly was a proud, exceedingly confident person, and had no trouble putting his inferiors in their place with just a few carefully aimed words (i.e. asking him, "what's on my back? " and his reply, "an ugly t-shirt."). Behind his back, I called D "Ego-Boy;" not a very creative name, but I was never really good at put-downs. He didn't seem to need anyone's approval for anything, from his crazy hair to skipping most Monday classes Senior year.

Even so, I knew that he treated his family very well, and that they very nearly worshipped him (except when his hair was too high and Grandfather would disown him once a week). He also was much nicer to me than he was to anybody else in my art classes. He was the reason I was taking the art classes in the first place, convincing me that I could skip gym for a year to take photo and drawing with him. He saved me from the renewed attentions of the only guy who dumped me, and we went painting together several times---as Friends, of course. He made me a huge glass palette, and sent the whole bugger in the mail (heavy glass and masonite??), after seeing the scrap of cardboard I used.

There were a few embarrassing events that my family had some part in, like when I invited him as my only guest to my graduation celebration dinner. This was during the confusing time when I knew I liked him much more than friends, but believed he only saw me as a sister. I took the risk though, and we all went to Haussner's and ate delicious German food and saw the World's Largest Ball of String. On our way back to the car, my Grandfather patted D on the back and said very loudly, "Now you take good care of her, alright?" Mortifying.

Then there were a couple of vaguely worded letters, several weeks of time in each other's company alone, and conversations that touched on everything but our own relationship and feelings for each other. I agonized with friends, reading the letters to them and asking them what they thought. Is this Brother D talking or does he show something more here? I didn't dare to hope.

One night we went to our art teacher's house to play cards and hang out with my other favorite teacher, Mr. Flynn. D spanked us all at cards, like usual (even with a 100-point handicap), but after one hand he said something--I don't even remember what it was--and I couldn't find any sarcasm or barb or anything in it. It was an actual compliment, to me. I didn't know what to think.

A couple of days after that, we sat in his car talking, like usual, till the wee hours of the morning, and finally he gave me a letter that told me how he exactly felt, and that the worst thing was that I only looked on him as a brother. That he was the one who hadn't any hope to the contrary, but that he would call himself an Ass if he didn't come out with it. (a reference to Much Ado about Nothing, which we saw together as Friends and is my second favorite romance).

I couldn't--and sometimes still can't--believe that I was actually loved by D, someone I grew to respect and adore so much. It was something I assumed before, that I was not going to respect the person I married, because nearly everyone I dated before I felt superior to (though it begs the question, why on earth would I be stupid enough to go out with someone I thought was stupid? who's stupider?). But there we are. All that is done, and like Eliza Bennet I can rejoice at quitting my tiresome family to live with a most generous, loving man. He may not have a vast acreage of rolling English countryside or impressive sidewhiskers like Colin Firth (purrrr...) but I still consider myself the most fortunate person in love.