For the last week or so I’ve been looking after sick people. Mostly little people. The husband a little bit too. And in that time I’ve managed to mostly not mock them. Mostly. And I’ve more or less managed not to tell them what crap patients they are. I think.
All the while wondering how long I could last before I succumbed to the dread illness myself. As it turns out, about a week. I was just starting to get smug about the fact that everyone except myself had been knocked out cold with the stupid bug when I got a tickle in my throat, then a cough and then everything pretty much went to shit from there.
I’m medicating with coffee and tim tams. And as many drugs as I can lay my little hands on. And wondering if I can live on garlic bread alone until it passes. Because parenthood and sickness is all about getting from point A to point B. Point A sucks. You are tired and sore and feel awful. But you can’t lie down or even wallow. You’ve still got to do stuff. Still have to work. Still have to break up fights. Still have to make food about 5 million times a day. Still have to try and remember what is so important about being consistent anyway. Still have to clean (in theory). And still have to comfort other sick people. Point B. Sweet, sweet point B, somewhere off in the distance. Point B where your bones don’t ache, where your lungs aren’t trying to eject themselves through your wind pipe, where everything is rosy. Or at least mediocre and average. Beautiful mediocrity. How I miss you.
So you do what you have to do. Whatever it takes. And you never feel guilty about it.