I am sick.
I’m running a fever.
My throat is so sore that the carbonation in my Diet Coke is burning holes in my esophagus.
My head is pounding.
My body is throbbing.
Even my ass is sore. No, don’t be gross, I don’t mean it that way; fortunately, so far no diarrhea and vomiting. I just mean my actual glutteal muscles are aching.
I am sick.
I know, right!
How can my body do this to me?
You mothers out there totally get where I’m coming from.
We never get sick. It’s sort of like a signing bonus when you have kids: you may never sleep again but you will not get sick.
But here I am sniffling and snotting, and hacking up hair balls, and I’m pissed off.
But I’m too weak to really exhibit any great show of emotion.
I can only lie in my bed, lifting my head every once in awhile to see what time it is.
I don’t know why I keep looking at the time. It’s not like this flu bug has a shelf life and at exactly 4:42pm, December 11, 2010, it’s going to be on its merry fucken way.
The worst part is that two of my kids have the same thing that I do.
image from here
So in the middle of the night, while I’m shivering under the covers even though I’m wearing full fleece pjs, an oversized bathrobe, and slippers, my kids are coming by, assembly-line style.
One has a sore stomach.
The other has a headache.
And one, who isn’t even sick, stops by to inform me that, “I just pooed, and I’m telling you so you don’t wonder why the toilet flushed in the middle of the night.”
Good. Great. Thanks for that.
My one kid is so high maintenance when he’s sick, he keeps coming into my room, and insists that I listen to his lungs with my stethoscope.
Then he curls up next to me, and wants to talk.
Talk? What are we: in the early stages of a budding romance?
I don’t want to talk. I’m trying to figure out if I have the strength to get my mittens from the front hall closet.
Instead though, my weakness keeps me captive to this: “Mom, if I died, what would you do?”
I answer, “Rent out your room.”
Well come on, I can barely keep my eyes open, I can’t also be expected to be sensitive.
He continues though: “Rent out my room? Right away?”
I answer, “Yup.”
I answer, “Because there are a lot of Asian students at the university that are looking for a place to live off-campus.”
Mercifully, there are a few moments of silence, but the last one was broken with this question, “Mom, how does a fart happen?”
From the depths of my pillow, I answer, “I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know? You’re a nurse!”
“I’m a shitty nurse.”
“So you don’t know?”
I reply, “No.”
You’re probably wondering how I’m finding the strength to blog while in this state of complete helplessness.
Let’s just say, Tylenol Extra Strength is a wonderful thing.