“Whoa,” is my immediate response. I hesitate after this initial jolt and then pull up again, trying to lift my heavy throbbing head off the wet pillow.
My condition shouldn’t have been a surprise. After all I’d been up throughout the night gasping for water and trying to double up the blankets around my shivering frame.
I blink back at the clock, trying to register the urgency of getting up after five snooze alarms. My throbbing head cradles the pillow, which feels like a rock rubbing a sore. You’ve got to get the kids ready for school. You’ve got to get the kids ready for school. It registers: a checklist of actions dart across my numb brain. The recognition of how impossible actual racing through the morning is also registers, and compels me to try again.
Ooof, up I go, the motion seems to pull against the front of my skull, forcing my eye socket tendons tight against my brain, while a cascade of soreness ripples down my body.
On and on I stagger to my robe, to a sweater I hastily pull on top of the robe. Still shivering. Down the stairs. Ow, ow, ow to the kitchen where I stumble about pulling cereal cartons down and start laying out lunch boxes.
There should be a Mom Medal of Courage given at times like this when it takes every will of your being to press on.
“Mom, are you OK?” my nine-year old cautiously inquires as she skips down the stairs.
“No, I’m sick,” a throaty bark returns back. Her eyes widen.
All three children now eye me from the table. One of them decides to test the waters by beginning to tease another. It’s all I can do to manage a deep, “Don’t you dare. Not today. I am sick.” Little bodies retract in their seats and quietly finish their Cheerios.
This impact doesn’t get past me and I realize I’d better use it to my necessary advantage. "Mom’s sick today guys,” I begin haltingly. “You need to step up and help. I need help. After breakfast you need to. . . COUGH! COUGH!. . . put your dishes in the sink and go upstairs to get dre. . . COUGH! COUGH! … dressed. You need to help.”
And in an amazing fluid turn of events -- they do. Quietly, helpfully, swifly. . . obediently.
With time to spare they pile into the car without so much as a tease or a defiant standoff (the three-year old’s morning modus operandi).
On the drive, as I squint painfully past my headache to the street ahead, I hear William say that he is going to make me a get-well card. Lauren chimes in that she will, too, and that they will all make one together as well. Interjected in this loving conversation are hopes and wishes that I feel better. And soon.
Huge hugs at drop off at the elementary school and preschool, and I stagger home with the realization I have a rare almost three hours before pickups begin. I pull back on pajamas over tender skin and collapse into bed, weakly doubling up the blankets around me.
For a brief few hours I will get to do what dads do when they’ve been walloped by the flu. I will get to stay in bed and just sleep.
By Maija Threlkeld
Labels: elementary school, Flu, Maija Threlkeld, preschool, sick dads, sick mom
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Last night, my throat hurt enough that I called in sick for work.
My alarm went off as usual at six a.m., but I immediately turned it off, went to the bathroom, took two more Advil, and drifted back to sleep. Around seven a.m., I continued to lie in bed reading while my husband and kids went through their frantic morning rituals.
Walker could not find his current event report. Reese chastised Elena for opening a new box of cereal while there were still three open boxes. Reese came in and asked if I wanted to eat breakfast, which was really code word for getting up and helping him. I declined, saying I wanted to rest.
After an hour, everybody left. I had the house to myself!!!
I recalled the joy of staying home sick when I was a kid. My mother would be extra attentive, and sometimes give me Pepsi, especially if I had been throwing up. Mom let me watch as much television as I wanted, and I didn’t have to fight my siblings for the remote.
I made myself some Krusteaz French Toast and coffee, and sat in front of the television. The living room looked odd. I rarely was around when it was bathed in mid-morning light.
On Channel Two was “Maury Povitch.” He looked a lot older than the last time I saw him. He interviewed an overweight teen mom who admitted that her boyfriend might not be the father of her son. The boyfriend seemed angrier about their personal business being revealed on national television than his lost paternity. I agreed with him.
I found a game show, “Trivial Pursuit.” Half the contestants were TV judges. The host complimented one female judge for a recent Emmy, in the new TV judge category. Who knew there were so many of them?
After fifteen minutes of viewing, I realized I was not sick or young enough to watch mid- day television. I decided I might as well check my work e-mail.
After I responded to five e-mails, I decided that I might as well update my homework Web page. Then I wrote a unit test and couple of worksheets. As I was working, I noticed that my son’s turtle’s tank had an ominous smell, palpable even through my stuffy nose. I siphoned out all the water from the ten-gallon tank, and refilled it with de-chlorinated water.
I looked at the clock. Only two more hours until I had to pick up the kids. I should be taking a nap, I thought. Instead, I remembered that my daughter’s brownie troupe was visiting an old people’s home tomorrow and that we had signed up to bring a dozen homemade cookies.
I made the cookies and cleaned the rabbit hutch. I went to pick up Walker and Elena from school. Since I felt a little out of it driving, I drove straight home. The kids started on their homework. As usual, Elena needed lots of help with her math. While I was assisting her, Walker tried to make a crossword puzzle with his spelling words. He became frustrated and tore it up. I helped him do it again.
By the time my kids finished their homework, it was time to start dinner. My sick day ended up being more of an at-home workday, but at least I wasn’t up until midnight making cookies.
By Beth Touchette-Laughlin
Labels: Beth Touchette-Laughlin, sick mom
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