I know, moms aren’t allowed to get sick. And aside from one pesky instance when I fell flat on my face and spent a few days in bed recovering, I’ve done a pretty good job toughing it out through any little ailment over the years.
That is until earlier this week, when the flu or an unusually debilitating case of food poisoning kicked my ass, hard.
The first clear thought I had when I knew I was going to be sick was, “This can’t be the flu. I don’t want to make anyone sick.”
I know that sounds very martyr-like of me, but trust me, it wasn’t that at all. Second only to puppets, clown, and carnies, I am terrified of children’s illnesses. Just the thought of it all — long nights lying half awake, waiting to be called to the kid’s bedroom; then even longer days figuring out first how to clear the decks and then later, all the rescheduling of appointments, helping with the pile of missed homework, and generally playing catch-up… even if the kid is out sick only one day. And do I even have to mention the scrubbing, the laundry/goddamn sheet folding, and the overdrive of chaos that sickness brings into an otherwise relatively sane household?