Sunday, September 10, 2006

Sick of Being Sick

I have been much out of touch for the past several days, and I apologize for that. It’s been a rough week.

One of the hardest things for me about being a mom – well, except for that whole taking my kid to the ER because he’s having trouble breathing thing, but I refuse to digress into asthma drama - is parenting while I’m sick.

And let me put on my whiny hat for a few minutes to tell you that I have been sick no less than 3 times in the past three weeks. I had a sore-throat bug, a cold, and – this weekend – a stomach virus.

At least I’m calling it a stomach virus. That way I do not have to entertain the possibility that the fancy restaurant that SRH and I went to on Friday night to celebrate our anniversary, one that I hope to go to again, gave me vile chills, the urge to evacuate my innards frequently, and the inability to eat much for the past two days.

(As an aside, I was completely intimidated by the fancy restaurant. For the first half of the meal, the server’s references to me as “the lady” made me want to giggle and say, Dude, I grew up in a trailer park. I ain’t nobody’s lady. But he persisted. Will the lady have an appetizer, he asked. A drink for the lady, he inquired. At first, I thought he was probably laughing at me behind his hand; however, by the end of the meal, I really did feel quite important and special.

Which makes me think that the whole thing could actually be used as a brilliant scheme to seduce the unwitting and uncultured. I don’t have any idea what the guy looked like or whether he spit in my food as he brought it out to the table, but all that deferential treatment could make a girl want to take him home the lady, as it were. Umm…I mean if a lady were single, that is.)

Okay, let me pull it back together here.

I was sick this weekend. And, much to my offense and chagrin, Zane didn’t seem to care much. This is a verbatim conversation:

Zane: Mama sick.

Zane comes over to pat my face as I’m dying.

Me: Yes, Zane, mama is sick.

This earns me a sympathetic look from my three year old, who pauses before saying with a shrug,

Zane: Mama come play train.

So, this is how parenting between trips to the loo goes down.

I bet mama could use some company. I'm going to go cheer her up.

First, I'll crawl all over her. Then I'll insist that she feed me spaghetti. That will make her feel useful.

Then, I'll give her that look she can't resist. Like she's the best mama in the world. Who cares if she's sick!

My job here is done.

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