At my house sickness is treated like a vacation, kind of. The kids get to survive on Popsicles and PBS. Every flavor of soup can be found bubbling away in the kitchen. No one is required to get dressed. Comfort – in its many forms – give temporary relief to the ferocious beast called sick.
My four year-old is being preemptively treated for Lyme disease because he was bitten by a nasty deer tick. He has a bunch of hemophilia stuff to deal with. And on top of all of that the poor kid caught a cold.
And then I caught the cold.
And now the baby has the cold.
And it would seem that the cold has mutated into a man cold and is striking down Dad.
Meanwhile, the laundry hasn’t been done in days, the dishes didn’t get done last night. There is a melted pool of sticky Popsicle on a couch pillow that I just sat on. Someone upended the toy basket. There are 40,000 used tissues in the bathroom. My head feels like it is going to explode.
As much as I don’t like being sick, I never fail to go into a focused tunnel of Mom worry when my children are ill. Daily responsibilities halt while I fluff pillows and ladle warm bowls of tomato soup. I hardly notice that I have a fever while I am busy trying to convince my kids to take some Tylenol or to sit still long enough for me to rub some homemade version of vapo-rub onto a toddler chest.
In a few days when this succubus virus has finished making its way through my family, I will be able to put the house back together. Routines will pick back up. The kids will drive me bonkers with their many outlandish kiddo demands. Everything will be as it should.
So, wash your hands and cover your mouth when you cough. Take some vitamin C and cross your fingers you don’t get this nasty cold.
It will suck the life out of you.