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Broke Wife, Big City
Mommies don’t
get sick days
By Aprill Brandon
I regret a lot of things. The fringe vest I wore for my seventh grade
school photo. That time I asked for a “pixie haircut” and instead spent
half of my junior year in college walking around with a mullet. Pretty
much all of 2004.
I even regret things I haven’t done yet, like when I finally finish
this six pound burrito sitting right beside me. I’m going to eat it
all. I know this. I’m going to hate myself for eating it all. I know
this. And yet, I’m still going to do it. Because…well…burrito. I mean,
come on.
But in the seven months that I have been a parent, I have never once
regretted my decision to bring a loud, tiny human into this world. Not
even when he projectile pooped onto my hand. Not even when a too
vigorous game of “Super Baby!” led to him puking directly into my
mouth.
My. Mouth.
Not even when I spent an entire night awake lying on the floor of a
hotel while Riker slept on my chest because it was the only place he
would fall asleep in that strange room (and I was too afraid to lay in
the comfortable bed for fear of falling asleep and rolling over and
crushing out his little life with my gigantic milk boobs).
But then…then Thursday happened.
Oh, Thursday.
Thursday Bloody Thursday.
Or, to be more accurate, Thursday Mucousy Thursday. (And you are
welcome for THAT visual).
Yes, on Thursday, I was sick. Nothing too serious. Just your typical
“I’m going to lay here on the floor until I die” illness. Nothing I
couldn’t handle. Except that this was the first time I had been sick
while also legally responsible for keeping a baby alive, which is
harder than you think considering all babies are born with an innate
death wish. As far as I can tell, once kids pass the six-month mark,
all their bodily effort goes into trying to fall from high distances
onto the floor so that they can eat whatever object it is on the floor
that is guaranteed to choke them.
(I’m assuming this death wish is also why my son tries to stick his
fingers into the mouth of whatever super scary person I am sitting next
to on the subway).
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had to take care of a baby while sick
or hungover or while missing a vital limb, but if you haven’t, let me
elaborately describe it for you using all my writerly tricks I’ve
learned over the years:
It sucks.
It sucks so hard, you guys.
And mine was just your average cold combined with typical parental
sleep deprivation. It’s not like I had the flu or Ebola or that
mysterious disease I always came down with on Mondays when I was in
high school that forced me to stay home and miss out on wonderful
educational opportunities such as a chemistry test.
Still, when it takes all your physical, emotional and mental energy and
focus to take care of a child, even losing one-fourth of that energy
and focus to a cold is devastating. Because the kid still needs fed,
needs changed, needs 52 games in a row of the peek-a-boo-esque “Where’s
Mommy!?!”. And worst of all, that cold is not going to stop your baby
from rolling directly under the gigantic, non-flat screen TV and
kicking it with his surprisingly strong legs (because “Tempting Fate!”
happens to be his second favorite game right after “Where’s Mommy!?!”).
We managed, of course. Because you have to. Because somewhere
underneath all that phlegm and mucous is the maternal instinct, still
operating, still forcing you to care where your baby is at all times.
But it wasn’t easy. That day falls in-between the “all-day high school
track meet where it was 34 degrees and my uniform was a glorified
swimsuit” and “driving ten hours to New Orleans with a champagne
hangover the day after my wedding” on the Hardest Day Of My Life So Far
scale.
In fact, we spent most of it lying on the floor, him repeatedly trying
to roll over to the dog so he could pull all of Buffy’s hair out and
then eat it and I holding haphazardly onto his leg while convulsing
oh-so-sexily with wet coughs and sneezes.
The low point, by far, was when I handed him his Fisher-Price hammer
and begged him to kill me with it.
“You can claim self-defense! People read my column! They already
suspect me of being an unfit mother! Plus, no jury in the world would
convict you what with a face like that! Just do Mommy this favor. Put
me out of my misery.”
I’m pretty sure he would have done it too, if he wasn’t distracted by a
sudden, overwhelming need to try to fall out of his high chair so he
could eat the candy wrapper on the floor.
I still don’t regret having my son. But after Thursday, I do regret my
lack of independent wealth so I can hire someone to play “Where’s
Random Caretaker!?!” with my son while I ride high on a Nyquil train to
All-Day Sleepytown when I’m sick.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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