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Bed Rest

I made BLTs last night and thought of Heidi.

I've told a story about my brother Marty, who is new to blogging, but I haven't told a story about my sister-in-law Heidi, who is also new to blogging. As the Blogging Matriarch of this family, I feel it my responsibility to embarrass them as much as possible.

When Heidi was pregnant with her third child, the doctors put her on bed rest immediately. She had had difficulties with her first two, and everyone was determined to make the third pregnancy go smoothly.

I was 16 that summer. I have no idea who suggested it or how it was decided, but my mom shoved me on a plane and I flew to Anchorage in order to spend a few summer months with her and my brother. I was to take care of the chil'en and keep that woman on her back.

There are plenty of memories that were made that summer, including how I backed over their mailbox with their car not once but twice, prompting my brother to reconstruct it so that now, if hit, it will merely swing around in a circle instead of falling over dead into the road.

And how I crunched their one and only remote control under the recliner, the Most Perfect Remote Control That Ever Lived. And how my brother had to stop the hallway clock because its infernal tick-tocking was driving me nuts. And how I became dependent on sweet and holy Nap Time.

But this is about Heidi, not me.

She was able to be at home, but she was supposed to be on the couch or on the bed AT ALL TIMES. How often do women on bed rest actually stay in bed or on the couch the whole time? Absolutely no one. Including Heidi.

I remember one specific incident where I was making BLTs for everyone's lunch. I stepped out the back door for two seconds to pick some lettuce leaves. Seriously, I was gone for two seconds. Maybe three. I came back inside, and Heidi and her belly were standing over the stove frying bacon.

We had the same conversation that we had probably five times a day: "Go sit down." "In a minute." "I mean it." "So do I." "Seriously, go lie down." "Okay." "Right now." "Just one second." "Come on." "Wait." "Now." "Just a bit."

Now every time I fry bacon, the sight of her belly dangerously close to hot grease and the sound of this argument runs through my head.