I’m in my bed, in the middle of the afternoon, with my covers pulled over my head. My body is chilled from the inside out, and I can’t stop coughing that barky, rough cough that just sounds painful. It feels like somebody is running a feather duster up and down my raw throat, choking me and tickling my throat simultaneously.
I’m wallowing in sickness induced self pity, when there is a knock-knock-knock on the backdoor. You have GOT to be joking, I think to myself. Maybe if I lay here, pretending I didn’t hear it, they’ll go away.
No such luck. Knock-knock-knock, I hear again at the back door, more persistently this time.
Crap! I slither and slump out of bed. I don’t bother to slip on pants as I drag my sick carcasse to the back door.
“Who is it?” I inquire with a raspy soar voice.
“It’s your father.” What the …? He is supposed to be picking the kids up and taking them to his house to give me a break.
I slowly open the door, and there stands my father, with my nine-year-old daughter standing behind him in tears.
“She threw up all over the car,” he states flatly, neither happy nor mad. He then moves to the side so my daughter can come in. In short, being a sick parent to a sick child sucks.
What It’s Like Being A Sick Parent To A Sick Child
Crap! No! No! No! It’s my turn to be sick! I feel like throwing a flu-y, 2-year-old temper tantrum right there, but I can’t.
My daughter needs me. I suck it up, pull up my metaphorical big-girl panties, and throw on my “mom hat.”
“Oh, Sweets! What happened?” I ask her, as my head is swimming like a stingray in the surf. I shake it off, and stand a little taller trying to fool myself into thinking I’m okay.
She just silently cries as if she has been handed down a dreadful punishment. She looks horrible. She’s a pasty green color, and her forehead is burning up.
“You’re not in trouble. It’s okay not to feel good, and sometimes we have accidents,” I say as I guide her toward her room.
We strip off her vomit covered clothes, and put her in some warm jammies. I make her go brush her teeth and wipe her mouth, because I think we’ve all experienced the aftertaste of puke. I tuck her into bed, and wipe the hair from her eyes.
When I’m sick, I know lemon-lime soda and an ice-cold popsicle helps settle my stomach, so I go to the kitchen and get her some. I also find a Tupperware bowl for “accidents” that may happen if she can’t make it to the porcelain throne.
I make sure everything is within arm’s reach for her, so she won’t have to move much in her pukey state. I even turn on her TV for ambient noise, because I know I would want that if it were me. She is still shell-shocked from throwing-up in Grampy’s car, but has calmed down enough to be on the verge of sleep.
I go straight to the bathroom, wash my hands, and down some DayQuil. It’s going to be a long day, and mommy now doesn’t have the time to be sick. I have to wash the soiled clothes, and make sure she has more pajamas to wear, and sheets for her bed should she have another accident.
Thus is this life of a mommy. There is no sick time, no matter how bad you feel. Especially when you also have a sick child! You have to just suck it up, and take care of them, while trying to forget how bad you feel.
Being a sick mommy sucks. Being a sick mommy with a sick child sucks even more!!
I think I want my mommy.