December 13, 2010

Moms Aren't Supposed to Get Sick

Any Mom should know, when she takes on the lifetime vocation of being a Mom, that getting sick isn't okay. So why did I do it?

The three basic requirements of the job of Mom are, as every Mom knows, 1) remove pee and poop when necessary, 2) never cook anything yucky like brussel sprouts and 3) be on-call 24/7 to provide unconditional love and nurturing when required. Getting sick is simply not an option.

Last week, I breached my Mommyhood contract by coming down with a cold. My children found this unacceptable, naturally. I should've read the fine print in my Mommyhood contract (which I signed just after the umbilical chord was cut), that clearly states that allowing myself to catch a virus of any sort would compromise my duties as Mom. Clause 13b.ii even states that losing my voice should never take priority over reading a story or singing a lullaby at bedtime.

I am in trouble.

My husband and I have a sort of silent deal that he is the only one of the Parenting Pair who is allowed to physically get sick. In fact, he has agreed to become sick enough for the both of us all year round. (He knows how to take one for the team, I can tell you.) But call me defiant, I just had to try being sick myself. I should've known the consequences would be disastrous.

The first time I tried to stay in bed was, to put it lightly, unsuccessful. My son Bram found it ludicrous that I was actually attempting to get out of my Mom duties and proceeded to pull me out of bed. I crawled back in, he pulled me out (he may be 2 1/2, but he's strong!). This happened five more times when I finally gave in and accepted the reality of the situation: I might be sick, but I'd better stop it and quick.

Being a sick Mom does have its advantages. Fulfilling the first requirement of the job is now a piece of cake - my entire sense of smell is gone, so changing dirty diapers is a breeze! The downside is, of course, when the kids are asleep and I finally do have a chance to indulge in, say, a glass of wine, I can't even taste it. I could be drinking a smooth, room-temperature glass of beet juice for all I know. Also, my ears are clogged so I am living with the constant sensation of being in a pressurized airplane cabin at high altitudes, but my daughter Mia's screaming capability in particular is significantly tuned down to a sort of soft, muffled peep. Lovely.

As I type this, my nose is running a 20k marathon, I have a coughing-fit every two minutes that would make a chain-smoker green with envy and a headache the size of Kentucky.
Yes, I'm a sick Mom...just don't tell my superiors.

This blog is dedicated to Tuchila, who told me in the friendliest way possible that I should get off my butt and start blogging again.