We were half-expecting it to happen. It happened when D1 was on the way, and the circumstances were even more favorable (or unfavorable, that is) this time. We could probably create a formula to predict it:
Where i=intensity of morning sickness, d=duration of morning sickness, n=number of pre-existing children, a=average age of pre-existing children, q=one of those magic numbers that makes formulas come out right, h=degree of help available, and w=number of weeks before DOB seriously injures something.
Until we can find a qualified doctor (his old one retired since his last injury and his foot is no place for generalists), we're not sure exactly what is going on, except considerable pain and a dull red mark in a new spot on his foot. But we think it's a torn ligament.
See, usually DOB, in the approved fashion of male chauvinists, comes home from work and sits down (although minus the easy chair, TV, and beer, none of which we have on hand). He, however, has a good reason for doing this, and when life has been such that he can't do it (such as a wife lying whimpering on the couch), we soon find out just how good that reason is. His feet can't handle much being walked on. Sooner or later they go on strike.
Unfortunately for this time's formula, "w" came out to be a smaller number than "d". I am intermittently vertical, but just barely. I still tire quickly, about at the time I've finished thinking of what needs to be done next. And suddenly most things are much longer and more complicated, and we are constantly reminded just how very un-handicapped-accessible this house is.
On the brighter side, the ducklings are an amazing amount of help. They fetch. They carry. They set the table. They clear the table. They put laundry in the basket. They clear dangerous items off the floor. I just wish I could teach them to cook. (I did try instructing D1 in the art of spreading peanut butter. Messy, but edible.)
And it could have happened two weeks ago, when I wasn't vertical at all. Then we would have just had to lay us doon and die, I suppose.
And DOB's shoulders are getting a great workout from being on crutches. I'll have quite the bodybuilder to go out . . . er, stay home with . . . on Valentine's Day.