What adult gets fevers?
I thought fevers were only for babies and old fragile women with bone loss and a penchant for whacking people with their walking stick. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with their inferior DNA.
My DNA, on the other hand, kicks mahja ass. It’s all, I never get sick, go on try me.
See that crusty band-aid on the playground? I’ll eat that as an afternoon snack.
That hospital door knob? (lick::lick::lick)
Elevator buttons? I’ll press them all and then rub my fingers all over my face.
That’s just how awesome my immune system is. I’d like to attribute my supersonic health to all the hours I logged in at day care centers as a child, eating mud and licking other kid’s sandwiches.
But then something strange happened this week, I felt all hot, then cold, then hot, then cold, then OH MY GAWD! GET THESE CLOTHES OFF MEEE! Are there tiny heaters inside my pants? What the hell is going on?! Why am I all clammy? Why is the floor wobbly? Why is everyone talking so loud? Why are my pants still on? Are my boobs sweating?
In other words: I got sick.
Turns out, I don’t do ‘sick’ well. I’m all crabby, and cranky, and then there’s all my kids I still have to take care of.
All two of them.
But why does it feel like I have 12 when I’m sick? Thankfully my husband took care of Berlyn, we even shipped her off to her grandparent’s house twice.
Stay-at-home-moms aren’t allowed to get sick.
We don’t get time off so we can just lay around and watch the Montel Williams show all day and stew in our own sick-stink.
I remember when I was in grade school and I would get sick, my mom still had to work, so she’d drop me off at her BFF, Rosemary’s house. Rosemary had much older kids, and they didn’t live with her, so there were never any toys, or fruit snacks, or Judy Blume books at her house. Just a lot of fake plants and an old pin ball machine that didn’t work. All there was to do was lay on the couch and stare at their tiny T.V.
It was there I learned about daytime television: Jerry Springer and Ricki Lake, Judge Judy and telenovelas.
That’s a lot of bitch-slapping for an 8-year-old to handle.
Although it was a good vocabulary lesson. I learned what the words paternity test, transsexual, and nudist colony meant.
As an adult, when I get sick, I’m nostalgic for a time when I can just curl up on the couch with a blanket, a bowl of soup, and some vulgar television. But that’s not the case anymore. My household doesn’t stop needing me. I still have to keep on mommying.
I love my job; please don’t think I’m complaining (well, I am a little bit). There are so many awesome things about being a mom that make up for this. It’s just that being sick is a giant inconvenience.
And it’s something I became painfully aware of as I was stirring my own homemade chicken soup.
I made myself chicken soup, while I had a 103 degree fever.
I’m almost positive my sweat droplets made it’s way into the soup.
My husband later asked, “what’s that flavor? I can’t quite put my finger on it. Is it cumin?”
It’s human sweat.
“It really is quite delicious.”