Page 31 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess
“Be right there,” I call back, even as I’m wildly pulling out my phone and googling ways to ease engorgement pain. There have to be ways other than pumping or breastfeeding, right? Mothers who are weaning their baby have to get engorged regularly as their body continues to make milk. There must be a way. “Come on, come on, come on…” I mutter as I scroll.
And when my eyes land on the third solution I see, they widen. “What?” I say to myself. “No way.” Are they for real? Is that—do people actually do that?
I clear my current search and begin looking up this suggestion. Sure enough, dozens of results pop up.
It appears this is actually a thing people do, and it is odd, and it is kind of gross…and I am going to do it anyway.
I will tell no one.
“Just a sec,” I call again to Dex, who probably thinks—well, I don’t know what he thinks, but I doubt it’s good.
“Take your time,” he says, sounding amused—I see nothing funny, but okay—and I rush down the stairs on silent feet. Or rather, they’re silent feet until I trip in my haste, lunging forward and catching myself at the last second.
“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” I say with every step I take, the jostling motion uncomfortable for my chest. When I reach the kitchen, I head immediately to the fridge, yanking the door open and then descending upon the vegetable crisper with a fury. I reach in, pull out the head of cabbage, and hold it up to inspect.
No mold. No brown wiltiness. Just green and leafy, pleasantly chilled. We’re good to go.
I tear off the two outer layers of leaves, discarding them on the kitchen counter and then moving to the next layer. I remove these two leaves more carefully, making sure I get as much of the full leaf as possible so I can cover as much skin as possible.
Mama’s not messin’ around.
I close my eyes and send a quick prayer of thanks to the cabbage gods that I happen to have some in my fridge before replacing the head in the vegetable crisper and closing the refrigerator.
Then, without ceremony, I shove the cabbage leaves down my shirt.
I flatten one over each breast, the leaves held loosely in place by my shirt. I’m not going to put on a bra yet, because the ladies are still very tender, so I’ll have to move carefully. I wince at the chill pressed against my too-warm skin, but within seconds that coolness actually starts to feel good. Then I rush into the bathroom to make sure Dex won’t be able to tell I have half a salad stuffed down my top—and yep, it looks good. Normal. A little lumpy, maybe, but notweirdlylumpy.
Which is great, because I do not need this to be any stranger than it already is. I am now wearing cabbage leaves the way Ariel wears seashells. I am her older, wierder sister who never leaves the house and writes poetry all day, a la Emily Dickinson.
But I’m working with what I’ve got.
Thirty seconds later, I’m standing breathlessly in the doorway to the laundry room. “Hi,” I say, trying to quiet my wheezing from all that running around. I sound like a winded hippopotamus, dragging the air into my lungs with a fury. “Sorry. I’m here. What’s up?”
Dex raises an eyebrow at me but doesn’t comment on my previous absence or on how out of shape I clearly am. “Right,” he says, his gaze going back to the dryer—which, I notice, has been pulled out away from the wall. “So what exactly is wrong with this?” He gives it a few thumps, which echo metallically.
“It smells like something is burning,” I say, taking a step into the small laundry room. “It’s not the lint buildup—I checked that already. I looked it up and it said it might be the thermostat? Or the motor.”
Dex nods slowly, seemingly deep in thought as he looks at the dryer. “Okay,” he says. “Well, I’ll take a look and see what I find.”
“Great,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.” I hesitate for a second, thinking of the flat tire he told me about the other day, and then add, “And I don’t suppose you would want to help me change my tire when you’re done here?”
Dex has been pulling the dryer further away from the wall—with very little effort, I might add, because once again he seems to be hiding Superman muscles somewhere in there—but now he freezes and looks over his shoulder at me. “Your tire too?”
I bat my lashes at him, fully aware that I look ridiculous. “Yes, please?”
His shoulders slump, his expression shuttering a bit. “Yeah,” he says with a sigh. He doesn’t look annoyed or anything, but he doesn’t look particularly happy, either. Still, he just gives me a short nod before turning back to the dryer.
I frown at the back of his head, trying to figure out what’s going on here. “You can say no,” I tell him. “You don’thaveto do the tire.”
“No, I’ll do it,” he says, still not looking at me.
I fold my arms over my chest, wincing again at the lingering soreness. “Dex, if you’re going to be grumpy or sulky about it, then just don’t bother. I don’t want you to help me if you’re going to hold it against me.”
He sighs, finally turning to me and running one hand through his hair. I wonder if it’s as soft as it looks. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m just tired, and it’s drizzling out there. And I don’t like being taken advantage of.”
I force myself to think before I speak. “I’m not trying to take advantage of you,” I say slowly. I pause, then add, “Just don’t worry about the tire, okay? I’m sorry I asked. Thank you for your help with the dryer.”
His eyes rove over my face for a second before he finally gives me one short nod. Then he turns back to his work, and I’m forgotten.
