As I sit down to write this post under a cloud of germy germs infused with Lysol disinfecting spray, I feel it’s only fair to warn you of my present Albuterol/Fluticasone/NyQuil-induced haze. I apologize in advance for any misspellings, misgivings or general editorial eff-ups in the name of proper blogging. I’m sick, you guys – so totally I-want-my-mommy sick.
It all started at 3:30am Christmas morning, because of course it did.
Christmas Day and I have a long-standing tradition of battling it out for all that is non-contagious on this very important day and, as usual, I fought the demon illness and the demon illness won. Because it always wins.
But here’s the thing about being sick, when you’re a mom it’s almost like getting sick doesn’t matter. Like it’s not a real thing. “Oh, hey, sorry you’re not feeling good, what’s for dinner?” And I’m not even talking about my husband – I mean I am, but it’s not just him. It’s everyone.
I know life isn’t fair and blah, blah, **cough, cough** blah, but even amidst fever dreams and chest rattles, two things have become abundantly clear: One, when my kids or husband are sick, the world – THE ENTIRE WORLD – slams on its damn axis until they’re better. There’s no work, school, chore, or obligatory half-assed attempt at anything in the name of personal responsibility. And two, there are 7 distinct stages of being mom-sick with each stage sucking even harder than the last.