“Are you sick?” my friend inquires.
“Yes,” I squeak out through strained vocal chords.
She gives me the look—hands on hip, waving a spatula with a baby on her hip and toddlers whizzing by her feet. “Mom’s aren’t allowed to get sick. You know that right?”
I weakly smile back and nod, gather my wads of snotty Kleenex and sneeze seven times in a row as she boots my coughing, snurfling self out the door so she doesn’t catch my bug.
I get it. I get it. I am a mother of three with a husband and a dog.
My life verse is “Do not grow weary in doing good, for in due season you shall reap if you do not lose heart.
Mom’s can’t get sick because mommies take care of everyone else. But what happens when, despite mommies best intentions, her immune system fails her?
All week as I sniffle, my big kid’s joke I have Ebola. Ha Ha. Very funny.
Then my four year-old cries big gulpy tears after pre-school and comes to me in confusion because the kids at school say it’s the plague.
“Mommy, are we all going to die from Ebola?” my little one inquires.
I reassure her and tell my middle daughter to stop telling her it’s Bible Prophecy.
One week in and my cold/flu takes a turn for the worse. My head hurts so bad my teeth ache and my eyes crust over and seal shut. My fever soars and I can’t move my neck. My voice is gone.
So, on Sunday morning (with pastor hubby gone with a full day at church) my teen son drives me to urgent care. Kyle is gentle and sweet. He helps me get settled, laughs at the mask of shame the nurses’ force on me and takes selfies of the two us to post on Instagram.
The doctor says its bronchitis and a bad sinus infection. He prescribes antibiotics and quarantines me to home and bed for 36 hours. (Yippee! Doctor’s orders!)
My son drives me home, tucks me in bed with hot tea and commands me to rest, picks up my meds, goes grocery shopping, comes home, feeds and walks the dog, babysits both his sisters and makes us all lunch and dinner. He also somehow manages to get his middle sister to do the dishes, set the table, do a few loads of laundry and keep the house quiet for mom.
(My husband can’t do this magic)
That evening, over a dinner of homemade chicken soup and crusty rolls, Tim asks Kyle about his day.
“Well, this mom-sitting thing was real tough. I walked one day in her shoes and I am EXHAUSTED. All I did was work and work it never stopped. Boy mom, you do a lot”
Tim and I looked at each and fell over laughing—and then the kids laughed, because my laugh (without my voice) sounds like a dying animal.
And then we affirmed Kyle and the all kids for taking such good care of mama.
I am so proud of this kid and I honestly feel a sense of relief about aging with him around!
So, maybe moms aren’t allowed to get sick with toddlers in the house or even husbands in the house—because sometimes they are as much work as a kid(not mine of coarse!)
But I’ve learned if you train even one of your rug rats well–to be a nurturing and caring person, YOU can get sick when they turn 16!
In due season…you will reap!
Hang in there sick mama’s!