Teamwork

My husband and I recently had an argument about his concern that we weren't functioning as a team. This took me by surprise because I think we make an excellent team. But, it turns out that Jim and I just have different definitions of teamwork. I believe teamwork is when Jim does the laundry while I sit with a glass of wine and thumb through the Pottery Barn catalogue. Jim thinks teamwork is being equals, even under the most distressing of circumstances. Jim postulates that when Lowery is particularly needy/fussy/poopy/crappy, or when I'm particularly stressed/tired/needy/crappy, that I have a tendency to shut him out and attempt to tackle her/my problems on my own.

He is, of course, correct.

I guess to him, me throwing a pacifier against the kitchen wall because Lowery's been crying for 3 solid hours and I can't soothe her, is not his definition of acting like a team in a stressful moment. He's so picky.

But I heard him. And I took it to heart and decided that the next time Lowery was hysterical over teething or an ear infection, or the next time I was hysterical over a midterm or a presentation at work, I was going to attempt to act like a human (instead of a honey badger) and allow him to help me.

Let's check on my progress over this past weekend.

Friday: I awoke with a very upset stomach. Lowery was fussing in her highchair. Jim was scrambling to get to work on time. I knew it was going to be a rough one. Throughout the day my stomach hurt worse and worse. I assumed it was gas and that I was just one ass-blowing fart away from relief. But after consuming a horse-size dosage of Pepto and still not feeling any better, my suspicions of a bigger problem were mounting.

Since our kid was born, Jim and I have had a Friday night tradition: bottle of wine, Umberto's pizza delivered and an independent film. Though the independent film part has given way for more contemporary gems like Hot Tub Time Machine. As simple and predictable as it is, it's my favorite night of the week. And I was not going to let a little stomach pain ruin this one.

Jim came home with a bottle, I had the pizza on it's way and yet there I sat rocking back and forth in agony. When Jim noticed I wasn't drinking wine, he became noticeably worried. I brushed off his desire to take me to the emergency room (What would we do with the sleeping baby? Maybe the baby monitor signal would reach that far?) and honestly, I wasn't bleeding (bleeding is always how my father determines the severity of anything. Bleeding or bone through skin). But by midnight I was unable to walk and was curled up in a ball on the floor crying. It was my true belief that I was going to die.

Jim ran around the house locking doors, called his parents to come stay with Lowery and helped his convulsing wife get dressed. He sped to the hospital, checked me in and held me upright while I signed forms. Because of my pain level and where I indicated the pain was, they rushed me into triage and wouldn't allow Jim to come with me. After some urine, blood, ultrasounds and poking around, it was determined that I had an acute attack of my gallbladder which was, apparently, full of stones.

One morphine drip and three hours later we were headed back home. Jim put me into bed, sent his parents home and drove to the nearest 24-hour pharmacy to get my prescriptions filled. He got home and into bed at a quarter to 4 am. He then got up with Lowery at 6 am, changed her, fed her and played with her until I finally came to.

Saturday: Jim had been notified a few weeks ago that he had won an award for his writing in a magazine for which he frequently contributes. I had talked with my parents about keeping Lowery overnight. I'd arranged for his parents to come and take care of our dogs. I booked a hotel. I did the laundry, packed our bags and made sure his best suit was pressed.

So Saturday morning we drove Lowery to my parents (an hour away), dropped her off with a list of instructions (she was unusually fussy), and got back on the road to our destination (another 3 hours away). We arrived at the most charming of bed and breakfasts, and having had less than 2 hours sleep the night before (and me being wonderfully hopped up on pain meds) we crashed on the antique bed in a deep slumber for a few hours before the ceremony.

Despite a slight pain still radiating from my gallbladder, and the excessive dry mouth and headache that the meds gave me, I managed to class it up for his big night. I even shaved (knee down, but still). And off we went, to a three hour dinner and ceremony. He works very hard with his freelance writing. Conducting interviews at night and on lunch breaks, writing during weekends and attending editors meetings to pitch ideas. All the while, working his other full-time job editing another magazine, helping me around the house and with the child and still finding time for his book club and Mad Men. This man deserved this night. And several others. He took home a big award and I was the one in the back boisterously channeling Arsenio.

The long drive home the next morning began with debriefing the previous night's events. Where he'd like his journalism career to go in the next few years, what stories he'd like to do, what he likes about his assignments and the fact that we need a new cartridge for our printer at home. The latter part of the drive was about how soon I'd have to have surgery to remove my gallbladder, what time of the year would work best with my work, who would help with Lowery, recovery time, fear of dying, etc. And somewhere in the middle, when the song came on, we had an argument about what exactly is a Funky Cold Medina. I always thought it was a person, like a svengali. Jim insisted it was more like an aphrodisiac one puts in a drink. Now that I know the song is about a man roufieing a bunch of women, I'm over it.

But I digress.

Sunday: Lowery's fussiness over the last week came to a head Sunday night after we returned home. She was running a fever, was covered in a rash and screamed all night long. We assumed it was teething, or another ear infection. But after consulting with Dr. Google, we were fairly certain our child had a bad case of Hand Foot and Mouth Disease. Our regular pediatrician confirmed this on Monday. Said it can be a very painful and that she's probably had this since Thursday.

Jim and I may have different definitions of teamwork, but neither one is necessarily wrong. Jim thinks teamwork is us being as united and connected in our bad times as we are in our good ones. I think teamwork means that sometimes one is doing more when the other can't. But we didn't even consider our newest team member's perspective: let everyone get through their problems before troubling anyone with her own.

And I believe that makes her the most valuable player.