I am not a wuss. I delivered three babies, one of them without an epidural. I've run long-distance races, I've stepped on nails, I've done some awful stuff to my body. There is, however, nothing worse or more painful than not feeling well as a mommy.
When I was single (and even when I was married but un-childed), I would take to my bed for days when I felt a cold or flu coming on. I would snuggle under the covers and doze off to TNT's daytime line-up. I would eat whatever sounded good, even if it was takeout. I wouldn't clean, or take the dogs out more than absolutely necessary.
As a mommy, though, that all changes. I have been pretty ill on a number of occasions as a mommy. I've run high fevers, barely been able to breath, low-down not feeling well. I have, historically, gotten very little sympathy from my kids. They don't seem to understand that mommy feels so poorly that all she can do is sit, motionless on the couch, shivering under the blankets.
Have a migraine? They simply don't understand why having the iPad at the highest volume level while playing Angry Birds is an issue. They still need their cups filled with milk, bowls filled with pretzels and apple slices and selves filled with attention. It's exhausting when I'm at full capacity, well-rested, cheerful, spiritually filled.
When my body is aching all over, I'm shivering, my head hurts even looking at the screen on my phone, well, it's really just too bad. I love and appreciate my husband, but he's not much help either. Yes, he helps me take care of our children. Yes, he makes sure that they stay away from me while I'm napping. He feeds them, bathes them and keeps them from danger.
I cannot expect that he will do laundry, empty or fill the dishwasher, cook, take out the garbage or otherwise perform domestic chores. In his estimation, simply keeping the children safe fulfills his duty. "Don't worry about the laundry, though, honey," he'll say, as he heads to work in an ill-fitting dress shirt. What he really means is, the laundry will be waiting for you when you are well and, in the meantime, it will have grown exponentially.
"Just put the TV on and let the kids watch all day," he says, but he doesn't understand how annoying it is to watch the same episodes of "Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Friends" over and over and over. How "Dino Dan" grates on my with it's bland Canadian congeniality. I don't mind "The Fresh Beat Band," but man are those kids awful cheerful all the time.
I will give my husband lots of credit. He has gotten better at coming home early or taking a day off if I'm not feeling well. I am grateful for his presence, even if it's not really a vacation--it's just a postponement of all of my normal responsibilities.
In the case of prolonged illness, when the dustbunnies are having babies, the dishes are threatening to topple out of the sink, laundry has turned into the Blob and is spilling out of the laundry room, I can't take it anymore. I have to at least get some semblance of order restored. I usually do it on a day when I start to get my energy back just a bit. After a solid 2 hours of work, I can see I've made progress and collapse, exhausted, onto the couch. "Why would you do that when you don't feel well," he'll ask me.
It's a peculiar thing. I have just noticed recently that Brian is capable of sitting on the couch without being bothered by the mess. It doesn't bother him that there isn't an empty two-inch by two-inch square of space in the TV room. He's not concerned with the loose pack of Pirate playing cards that litter the floor in the kitchen. He's unaware that the pile of laundry sitting in the front entryway hall shouldn't be there. In short, he has on a special pair of goggles that permit him simply to not see ugliness.
I, however, do not. I am not able to really relax in front of the TV unless the room around the TV is free of debris. If my feet are sticking to the floor every time I walk to the sink, I can't just jut my chin out and walk back to the couch. If I'm stepping on laundry every time I'm walking upstairs, it really eats at me. I have a much lower level of tolerance for mess than I used to.
I say all of this because I feel run-down tonight. I've run the dishwasher 3 times, cooked dinner, made brownies with Bekah, run the washer and dryer numerous times, vacuumed upstairs, put away laundry, straightened our bed and cleaned our bathroom and performed various other household chores. The TV room is still a mess (I made the rookie mistake of trying to straighten it out with the kids still in it) and the kitchen floor looks awful. Do I just bundle up under a blankie, watch The Avengers for a third time and ignore the kitchen? Or, as a wizened mother do I clean it all up, knowing tomorrow I might not be in the shape to do it?
I'll probably end up doing it. And I'll be trying not to pass my germs on to Brian. The only thing that's worse than a sick child is a sick husband. True story.
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