The last few days have been kind of rough, pregnancy-wise. I have some kind of cold with sinus congestion and cough, which has totally ratcheted up the level of nausea I’m experiencing. I’ve also had digestive woes, the details of which I will spare you. And, just for good measure, I sprouted a monster zit just below my bottom lip on the right side.

Given this state of affairs, I’ve been sleeping a lot. And when I haven’t been sleeping, I’ve been whining. And Dan, in the face of this set-back, has been a model of patience and servitude. That is, until last night when I ran him right up to his limit.

We were lounging on the loveseat, watching Chalk, which was way less funny than it could have been, when I dumped my legs into Dan’s lap and asked plaintively if he could just rub them a little bit. I modeled the technique I was hoping for – a moderately firm kneading of the calf. He obliged, with only minimal eye-rolling.

Then, I complained about my stomach upset and headache. He made sympathetic noises and engaged in more vigorous leg-rubbing.

Finally, my eyes started watering, and I poked frantically at my nose with the kleenex I’d been carrying all evening. Something about the congestion had shifted.

“Ugh!" I cried. "I have boogers in my nose that are hurting my nose."

“Look,” Dan said, frankly, halting the kneading and giving me a stern look. “I have sympathy for a lot of your pregnancy symptoms, but ‘the boogers in my nose are hurting my nose’ is not one of them.”

Okay, I thought, tears still streaming. Fair enough.