I am officially old. I’ve been old a while but having the flu so bad that you call in sick—and your ‘office’ is six feet from your bed—is the sign that you’ve arrived at your AARP years. Oddly enough, Son and I are on opposite ends of the high-risk flu years but he popped through his 6-year-old fever in 48 hours. I remember when I used to get a sore throat and look forward to the sinus problems because at least blowing my nose didn’t hurt.
Is this my future? Grenades going off in my throat, waking myself up at 3am every time I swallow? If one more person tells me I should have gotten a flu shot I am going to start whipping slimy Kleenexes at them like Germ-a-boo, the sadistic plague clown.
For a few days I thought I was just sore from yard work, which I’ve already paid to have done for me. I have the only house in the neighborhood with trees (seriously) and I got a nastygram from the HOA nazis about my messy yard. So at first it was just my specialized raking muscles. Now I realize there are hoards of Visigoth white cells raking every joint in my body at an early Cinco de Mayo party. Yes, I know I mixed my cultural metaphors. I feel that bad.
I even considered turning in my Martyr card and having Son’s father come get him for a few days. Nothing I hate more than admitting to him that I can’t keep my Perfect-Mommy title. And nothing better than getting up after a painful night awake and having a fight about getting dressed for school. Let’s see, we’ve had 120 days of school so I’ve had… 120 arguments this year.
Advo-Catie has one article to write very two weeks and here we are on the last day before deadline with a fever, ice cube hands and no ideas.
Did Sweetheart really just tell me he hopes I’m better before the weekend? Ah, if he had only stopped three words short of that period I wouldn’t have to guilt-torture him.
This column is really for all you moms and grandmoms and teachers and small business owners who have felt as bad as I do right now and still have to keep going. Maybe you’re sick right now. But I’m here to tell you that crying into a sweatshirt in the middle of the day and craving ramen because it’s warm and salty is perfectly okay.
We all know it’s hard when the nurturer is the sick one. Son is going to come home and ask where his dinner is. Dog is still going to need a visit outside. Newspaper is still going to be printed tomorrow. Go, Super-moms!
When this hits the street, if anyone wants to bring me some chicken soup, or a masseuse, or a blankie… or a priest, you’ll probably find me on the couch still in my damp sweatshirt ruining the weekend.
