So I was just perusing some information on what you can and cannot take medicine-wise, like, say, for a cold, when you’re pregnant. The verdict? Easy.
What you can take: Nothing.
So it’s safe to say that I’m feeling a little sorry for myself. Not even an Advil, really? Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that whole “benefits outweighing the risks” bit so much to heart. I mean, children have turned out fine and people, short of taking Accutane and Thalidomide, have taken pain pills and antibiotics and decongestants and all manner of drugs before.
But I guess I also feel like being a little whiny. I was remembering earlier, through a rather disgusting series of events that included that particularly off-putting thing that small children do wherein they take a sip of your nice grown-up drink (“I have some of that? Peez? May? I?”) and then proceed to deposit half of their mouth’s contents right into what becomes San Pellegrino, Torani syrup with a festive amount of ice and a liberal sprinkling of carrot by-product, a drink that my grandmother used to make for me when I was sick.
My grandmother was a hard person to live with on occasion, especially as I became older and less dependent on her; but she truly shined when you were sick or in need of a little TLC. So whenever I was down with a cold, she would prepare something that may sound as gross as the Toddler Italian Soda listed above, but which to me was a real treat when I was feeling sorry for myself, as I am now.
She would finely grate a carrot and then pour boiling hot water over it. Then she would squeeze almost a whole lime and add a few generous spoonfuls of honey.
And then I’d eat the carrots, made soft and sweet and tender by the water and the honey and the lime, and pretend I was a horse eating straw. And my throat would still hurt, but somehow I knew someone loved me, because I was eating my carrots and honey.
I wish sometimes things were as simple as that.