The Sick Mom and Other Urban Legends

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So, I am sick.

No really. I know I’m a mom and all, but I’m sick. At the same time.

I realize this is so RARE. Moms don’t ever get sick. We can’t. If we do, the universe gets all tilty and our children wear the same underpants for three days straight because evidently we’re the only ones that check that kind of thing.

Also, my children don’t accept sickness. At least on my part. They totally get it when they feel a bit of a raspyness at the back of their throat. THAT’s legit sickness, folks.

So, let me put it in a graphic for you:

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What can I say? I’m a visual person.

Also,  one of my children doesn’t have any arms. Not in real life, though.

Ok, so, to sum up:

I’m SICK AND NO ONE CARES.

This past weekend I spoke at a conference about Counting It All Joy. I did so whilst totally high on Mucinex D and a whole lotta Dr. Pepper and I am pretty sure I did ok. But then I came home and my sinuses said, “Ok, so we’re done here.” and now I cannot breath.

I have to speak on recovery and being a sober Momsie tomorrow and I’m pretty sure I’ll need to breathe while doing so.

So, the whole time I have been home, I have been trying to recuperate and this keeps happening:

Scene:

Momsie, in bed, resting, surrounded by cats and used tissues.

Cue music from Jaws.

Enter Red: MOM ARE YOU ASLEEP? ARE YOU SICK? WHERE’S THE (insert item that was lost in 2016 but is now really important). MOM? MOM? WHY DO YOU KEEP CRAWLING UNDER THE COVERS? LET ME COME IN THERE AND FIND YOU. IT’S A GAME! HOW FUN! LET’S TACKLE YOU BECAUSE THIS IS A MOM AND SON MOMENT OF FRIVOLITY!

Annnnd, cut.

 

Also, this:

Momsie, in bed, surrounded by even more tissues and cats. We have a lot of cats.

Husband, from downstairs: Honey? HOOOONNNNNNEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYY?

Momsie: (Summoning the last tiny bit of her will to live because she is one who cares about her family and so must try to answer:) *hack hack cough* Yes.. my love?

Husband: HONEY?? ARE YOU THERE?

Momsie: (teeny voice) yes?

Husband: HONEEEEYYYYYYY WHERE ARE YOU? I CAN’T FIGURE OUT WHERE YOU ARE EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVE BEEN UPSTAIRS ALL AFTERNOON AND YOU AREN’T DOWN HERE AND I DOUBT VERY MUCH YOU HAVE LEFT FOR VEGAS.

momsie: (even teenier and more pathetic voice) yes.

HUSBAND: HONEY? I’M JUST GOING TO KEEP YELLING FROM DOWN HERE BECAUSE I CANNOT WALK TO THE STAIRS AND AM A USELESS HUMAN BEING. BASICALLY.

momsie: oh for the love of pete, what. (Starts crawling towards the stairs like creepy girl from The Ring.)

HUSBAND: YOU OK? DO YOU NEED ANYTHING? WHAT CAN I DO TO HELP? CAN YOU ANSWER PLEASE? WHOA YOU’RE CRAWLING DOWN THE STAIRS IN A FUTILE ATTEMPT TO ANSWER ME, AREN’T YOU?

Husband: Oh! Hey! Hi there! Sweetie, what are you doing out of bed? But, while you’re here, can you tell me where (insert item lost in 2006 here) is?

 

And so on.

Moms don’t get sick. Or, if we do, we just blog about it with a lot of resentment and snark and that helps us heal.

 

 

 

 

 

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