When I wrote late last Sunday, I though we were just about through the flu–how wrong I was. I got it Monday. Then the Ladybug got it yesterday. Our babysitter’s feeling queasy now and doesn’t want us within 100 miles of her house for awhile. Apparently there’s some time delay while this…thing…hunts up a chink in your armor. It took out the boys first, ’cause they’re usually the easy targets. Then it came after The Mama, and my girl. My girl who’s usually only sick once every 18 months. If that.
I think there’s a Murphy’s Law of parenting that kids will always be the most sick through the middle of the night and absolutely have to throw up unexpectedly at least once in their own bed–just to be sure to hit all the love-ies, cuddle blankets, favorite pillows, and contraband toys possible in one shot. Did you know the average 4 yr old’s bed is equal to at least 3 complete loads of laundry? Or more depending on the number of delicate-wash, irreplaceable stuffed Flickas and Lambies there are to contend with.
There’s an emotional exhaustion that comes with falling sick in the middle of nursing the sick. When you’re leaning on the cool bathtub edge thinking that you just might sleep on the bathroom floor rather than drag yourself back to bed…and you hear that weak “Mama!” followed by the now familiar “Blahg!”…then Mr. Fix-It’s rather desperate “I need some help!”…suddenly all you want is your own Mama. Someone to braid your hair back from your face. To bring you a cup of water. To cover you up and kiss your forehead and make you feel like it’s ok to close your eyes and rest.
Instead, there’s yet another toddler peeking in the doorway. “Mama, I hun-gee. Mama, I wanna peanutbutta waffle.”
Truly? If you’re in my doorway asking for food, then who’s out there spewing in the mudroom with Daddy? What day is it again? Seriously…it’s 5 am already? Wait…which one are you? Where are my glasses?
He steps right up to my face and pats my cheek. “Wake up, Mama. I hun-gee.”
About that time Mr. Fix-It hustles in and hustles him outta there. “I told you, Mama’s sick. Leave her alone!”
I want my mama, but it turns out I am The Mama.
So I stand up and braid my own hair.
Breakfast at 5 means naps by 9–’cause I am The Mama.