Seventy two hours of being snotted and coughed on has finally caught up to me. The worst thing that could possibly happen to a mom, aside from true disasters of course, has happened. I’m sick, done in, beat down and laid up. I’m achy and feverish. Even my hair follicles hurt. Oh and let’s not forget hacking up a lung every so often.
There is no escape. It’s not like moms get sick days. Life must go on whether I feel good or not. The kids are still going to get up at the crack of dawn in need of a mommy to get them dressed, fed and off to wherever the schedule dictates. Of course kids don’t understand the meaning of the word “sick” when it’s paired with “mommy.” It’s as if the word doesn’t even exist in their vocabulary.
When Owen asked for the 332nd time for a cup of juice and I still hadn’t mustered up the energy to get up and get it, I said, “Honey, Mommy isn’t feeling well. Just be patient.” Then my 5-year old looks me straight in the eye, and says, “Mommy, that’s what you said last time. You should be better now.” It was at that moment that I realized I was never going to get them to understand, so I crawled out from my snuggle place, crept up the stairs, and delivered to him a nice cold cup of water.
Hey, just because I wasn’t winning the war, doesn’t mean I can’t go down without a fight. Of course then I had to listen to him complain about not getting juice, but the fever and stuffy head worked great as a noise barrier. See, there’s a reason I’m not much of a medicine taker.
The laundry still needed to be washed, folded and put away. And believe me, you don’t want to see my husband in a laundry room. It’s like a scene out of “Meet the Fockers.”
Then there’s cooking. Isn’t this always the conundrum? You don’t feel like cooking, but eating out doesn’t work either, and again, hubby in the kitchen? Not such a pretty picture. One night we went out, another we made pizza at home, and tonight we grilled (which is a whole other column in it of itself) and none of those meals sat right with me. It helps that I can’t really taste anything and my appetite is pretty much non-existent.
You know what I miss? Whenever I was sick as a little girl, my mom would always get me vanilla wafers and apple juice to snack on, and then she’d make me potato soup. Oh how I wish she’d come up here right now and make me a pot of potato soup. It always made me feel better.
Don’t get me wrong, Neil tries. Really, he does, but sometimes I feel like I’m in this old '90s commercial. I think it was for Nyquil, but I can’t remember. There’s this sick mom that finally breaks down and takes whatever wonder drug they’re trying to sell. Suddenly she’s all better, except when she wonders out the bedroom, she finds that the house is a complete disaster, the kids are unkempt, and the husband looks up and says, “Great, you’re all better.” Yep, that pretty much sums up my week right there. Only I’m not through it yet.
I’m definitely open to suggestions, tips, and pointers. How do you get through the chaos when you’re sick? Or are you more like me and just pretend that you’re not and hope it goes away? So far this method has not boded well for me. I’m lying in my bed trying desperately to finish this column without falling asleep mid sentence or coughing up a lung in the process.
The good news is that I’m pretty sure I’ve lost a pound or two from the lack of appetite. My abs are stellar from all the coughing, and I have gotten out of at least some amount of housekeeping. There are upsides indeed.