Midnight Rambler

Don't tell Rob, but I am missing his laptop.

And no, that's not some kind of weird euphemism. I really am talking about a computer.

When Rob got his laptop for work, I was very pish-tosh about the whole thing. I'm a little proud of being a borderline Luddite (maybe this is the real root of my lack of affection for Twitter and her cohorts).

I resisted having our tiny television upstairs, I don't know how to text message, and, as a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure I own the first cell phone ever made. It's bulky and it doesn't even have a camera in it. Seriously old school.

Who needs a laptop when they have a perfectly good desktop? So you can hold the computer on your lap, big whoop.

Well, I'll tell you what the big whoop is. The big whoop is having a cool brother who, when he hears that your husband has joined the rest of the world, will hook you up with an insanely excellent wireless internet connection.

That way, when the weather turns cold, you will be able to steal appropriate said laptop and snuggle in your bed, under your warm down comforter, while enjoying your evening computer time.

Instead of shivering in your drafty living room because some Luddite who shall remain nameless is trying to conserve the heating oil for the really cold weather and refuses to set the thermostat above 60 degrees at night.

Wonder who that nutjob is?

Anyway, my laptop Rob is bunking at the hospital tonight, waiting for his chance to catch a baby that is taking the scenic route. His patient has been in the hospital since last night, and when I talked with Rob this evening, she was still only at 2 centimeters.

For those of you who may not know (seriously doubtful given my intelligent readership), this woman is not even close to HALFWAY done. And she has been there since LAST NIGHT. God love her and pass the epidural.

Of course, that didn't make me any more cheerful when I was on the phone with him. After all, I've already been in her shoes (slippers? socks? sweet green backless gown?) four times, and now these feral children have sucked all of the mother empathy right out of me.

Oh, I kid.

I am a wellspring of empathy, but it's hard to tap into that while my help mate is telling me he won't be around for the help part tonight.

Especially when I have one crying about how I DON'T UNDERSTAND HER, and if I had a piano piece to practice that PRACTICALLY BROKE MY WRISTS OFF then maybe I would understand that she COULDN'T POSSIBLY PRACTICE ANYMORE TONIGHT.

Dramatic much?

I have another one who at one point today had a very legitimate coughing spasm. I made the mistake of doling out a cherry cough drop, and now he is walking all over the house hacking away like Typhoid Mary, jonesing for a cough drop, and causing the first one to wail about how she CAN'T CONCENTRATE WITH ALL THE COUGHING.

Then there are the two little ones who cry just for the thrill of it. And who wipe their noses on the bottom cushions of the sofa. (You know you want to come over.)

And I had to do the trash for trash night, which I'm pretty sure is in direct violation of our marriage troth. I'm pretty sure he said that he would love, honor, and take the trash out until death do us part.

Eh, but what are you going to do? Babies come on their own time. I'll just have to retire to my warm bed with a book instead of a computer.

My inner Luddite is so pleased.