Mommy Sick Days

I didn’t post yesterday because I had the joy of coming home from work mid-day because of a migraine. I was able to rest for an entire hour before I had kids arriving home who were hungry and chatty and generally thought it would be fun to invade my couch space. And I realized how much I hate being sick and how much I once enjoyed the luxury of staying home when I was under the weather.


That’s because I was living with my parents and I was taken care of by my Mom. I do the same for my kids when they get the sniffles or something much worse and much messier. I make homemade soups and I rub their backs. I tiptoe around the house when they’re napping and I rifle through the junk drawers for their favorite movie. When their stomachs hurt I rush out to the 24 hour grocery store for Sprite and Pepto Bismal and I spend half the night scrubbing vomit out of the carpet because my kids are famous for not quite making it to the bathroom.

It all changed for me as soon as I moved out of my parent’s home. I noticed a stark difference when I had my first really bad flu in college. I was delirious and bedridden and can’t remember a full 36 hours of my life. I think my roommate tried to feed me because I stepped on a sack lunch when I got up to go to the bathroom. Otherwise everyone avoided being within breathing distance of me. I could have died in that room and no one would have noticed until I started to smell.

But when Mommy’s get sick it’s worse because we’re expected to continue on as normal for the sake of the children. Never mind that you’re hacking up a lung, there’s still basketball practice and an apron that has to be sewn before the next school day. My five-year-old daughter tends to try to care for me, which means that she tucks and re-tucks her stuffed bear in next to my face and she covers me with dozens of tiny little receiving blankets. She also wakes me up if I accidentally doze off—just to make sure I’m still okay.

When my husband finally arrives he gives me the cursory, “Oh, you look sick. Can I do anything?,” as he only half listens to the answer, picking up the remote and changing my television channel from a chick-flick to a ballgame. Generally I’ll ask him to make dinner, and he always digs out the blue boxes of macaroni and cheese—a dish I detest, so I wind up going to bed hungry unless I want to drag myself into the kitchen to find something to eat. And I’m still expected to do tuck-ins and get the kids off to school.

When my husband gets sick, he retires to his room and I run interference for him, making sure that the kids steer clear and that a sandwich or bowl of soup appears in between his naps on the couch with ESPN playing in the background lulling him to sleep.

It just doesn’t seem fair, but I can’t seem to change it. My mom has a friend with lots of kids who loved going to the hospital to have her babies. She’d check in for a week minimum and let the nursery care for her new little one while she rested and had turkey sandwiches delivered from the cafeteria. She was smart. She knew how to cheat the system. Now if only I could convince my family that the standard treatment for a Mommy cold is to check into a hotel—preferably one with a spa, then I wouldn’t mind getting sick.