If mothers got sick days, the world would probably crash. Or at least the kids would run out of juice
The flu.
It descended upon our household like a tiny, invisible army of germs, and settled in for an extended stay. What began as a spike of fever and a relentless cough quickly morphed into the dreaded Flu A, joined with strep… and soon, some lucky family members were even graced with an additional wave of Flu B.
First, it was my son. He lay in bed, a pale, dramatic figure, moaning for lukewarm drinks. Then came my daughter, her voice a raspy whisper, eyes glazed, cheeks a flushed red. Even my baby wasn’t spared. Flu chose to strike my children one at a time, ensuring each received personal tender care and attention.
At all hours of the day, I was on call as day nurse and night nurse. I dispensed tissues, cooked gallons of chicken soup, and became intimately acquainted with the inside of our washing machine. I monitored temperatures, administered nasty-tasting Tamiflu, and somehow managed to keep the house from looking like a blizzard.
My own nose was a little stuffy, my throat a bit scratchy, but mothers are superheroes, right? We run on caffeine and sheer willpower. Plus, I had a mental checklist a mile long — laundry, supper, laundry, errands and laundry — and those things weren’t going to magically do themselves. Especially after my cleaning lady called in sick for a week. (Yes, she’d tested positive for flu.)
Then, it happened. The flu, having conquered my children, turned its attention to their mother. My superpowers flickered and died, a bulldozer demolishing all of my muscle. Suddenly, the Motrin and Tylenol beckoned, the air around me thickening into fog, and the mountain of laundry mocked me from the corner. I staggered to the couch, a single, pitiful groan escaping my lips.“Mommy’s sick?” Son asked, peering at me over his Magna-Tile tower.
“Yes, sweetie,” I croaked, “Mommy isn’t feeling well.”
“Oh.”
A beat of silence. Then, Daughter piped up, “Can I have some more apple juice?”
And just like that, my dreams of a cozy sick day, filled with steaming mugs of mint tea and good long naps wrapped in a throw blanket vanished. Because — let’s be real — who was going to get that juice, the flu fairies? No, it was me. Slightly feverish, achy, utterly defeated me.
I dragged myself to the kitchen, poured the juice, and then, because I’m clearly the mother of the house, threw in a load and started chopping vegetables with the dubious precision of a fluey mother.
Mothers don’t get sick days. We get slightly slower days. We get days when the laundry piles are a little higher and supper is a tad simpler. But we don’t get to just lie in bed and moan. If we did, the world would probably crash. Or at least the kids would run out of juice.
On the plus side, the kids rallied… Son swept the kitchen (a miracle!), and Daughter offered to “help” fold laundry. (This mostly involved turning socks inside out, but it’s the thought that counts). They even took turns fetching me tissues and refilling my bottle of water.
My children naturally bounced back to full health, hovering around me while I sniffled and coughed my way through the days, but I wasn’t going to complain about this special treatment. We survived, sanitized, and — I’ll admit it — it actually felt good to get first-class service.
Maybe, just maybe, this germ warfare has its merits.
