Real Moms Can't Get Sick
July 22nd 2009 19:51
If you're not a mom, you may wonder at that title. You may wonder because of course, moms are no less likely to get sick than the rest of the population.
The problem is that we CAN'T be sick. We just don't have time.
Last week was a perfect example. There was some kind of creeping crawling bug going around that left me feeling miserable. I ached and just wanted to sleep all day. Everything went well until about noon on the first day. Then someone wanted something to eat. And not something they could get for themselves. So I got up and cooked a little lunch. While I was up, I did some laundry and washed a few dishes then went back to bed. Fortunately my girls are old enough to entertain themselves. All they really need is a cell phone, a computer and a television. Things were great until Clueless Dad came home with his normal loving greeting.
"What did you do all day?"
I swear one day I am going to do great injury to the man for asking me that question. Instead, I told him about my aching head, my upset stomach, chills and general malaise.
"Oh. Sorry you feel badly. What's are you doing about dinner?"
This is what puzzles me about men. As a healthy person the last thing I want is someone who is ill breathing on my food with their germ infested breath. I imagine their hands teeming with bacteria waiting to invade my body. Not so with men. They would allow a ward of TB patients to prepare their meals, do their laundry, any thing to keep them from having to do a bit of housework.
"Well, dear. I'm so ill, I hadn't thought about eating." I responded from my nest of blankets.
"Oh well. Whenever."
And so began the waiting game. The longer I waited, the more determined I became that I was not going to get out of bed and cook the man dinner. My oldest child came in and informed me that she was going to fix soup and a sandwich for her sister if that met with my approval. I waved my blessing to the child and closed my eyes. Two hours later, he asked again what I was making for his dinner.
This scene was played over and over during the course of my illness. In talking to other moms, I have come to realize that it isn't just that he is indeed Clueless. Men don't seem to think we get sick. Unless of course we get some dreadful life threatening illness. Then they become a bit more sympathetic.
But, let one of them get the sniffles and the table turns considerably. He coughs and hacks and drinks cough medicine directly from the bottle. He asks for and receives, special toddies and warm drinks to soothe his aches and pains. He gets tucked in with his books and a remote control for the television and the whole house hold tip toes around so his nibs can get his sleep.
It was worse though when the children were babies. One week several winters ago, the three of us had some kind of stomach bug. Clueless Dad was working nights then and he came home to find me rocking two feverish children. There were piles of dirty bed clothes all around me, I hadn't slept all night and I was in desperate need of a shower. The father of my children looked around the room, and I knew he realized that he should not ask a certain question. I was wrong. He looked at me, sitting there with baby vomit drying in my hair and tenderly asked:
"What have you three been doing?"
The problem is that we CAN'T be sick. We just don't have time.
Last week was a perfect example. There was some kind of creeping crawling bug going around that left me feeling miserable. I ached and just wanted to sleep all day. Everything went well until about noon on the first day. Then someone wanted something to eat. And not something they could get for themselves. So I got up and cooked a little lunch. While I was up, I did some laundry and washed a few dishes then went back to bed. Fortunately my girls are old enough to entertain themselves. All they really need is a cell phone, a computer and a television. Things were great until Clueless Dad came home with his normal loving greeting.
I swear one day I am going to do great injury to the man for asking me that question. Instead, I told him about my aching head, my upset stomach, chills and general malaise.
"Oh. Sorry you feel badly. What's are you doing about dinner?"
This is what puzzles me about men. As a healthy person the last thing I want is someone who is ill breathing on my food with their germ infested breath. I imagine their hands teeming with bacteria waiting to invade my body. Not so with men. They would allow a ward of TB patients to prepare their meals, do their laundry, any thing to keep them from having to do a bit of housework.
"Well, dear. I'm so ill, I hadn't thought about eating." I responded from my nest of blankets.
"Oh well. Whenever."
And so began the waiting game. The longer I waited, the more determined I became that I was not going to get out of bed and cook the man dinner. My oldest child came in and informed me that she was going to fix soup and a sandwich for her sister if that met with my approval. I waved my blessing to the child and closed my eyes. Two hours later, he asked again what I was making for his dinner.
This scene was played over and over during the course of my illness. In talking to other moms, I have come to realize that it isn't just that he is indeed Clueless. Men don't seem to think we get sick. Unless of course we get some dreadful life threatening illness. Then they become a bit more sympathetic.
But, let one of them get the sniffles and the table turns considerably. He coughs and hacks and drinks cough medicine directly from the bottle. He asks for and receives, special toddies and warm drinks to soothe his aches and pains. He gets tucked in with his books and a remote control for the television and the whole house hold tip toes around so his nibs can get his sleep.
It was worse though when the children were babies. One week several winters ago, the three of us had some kind of stomach bug. Clueless Dad was working nights then and he came home to find me rocking two feverish children. There were piles of dirty bed clothes all around me, I hadn't slept all night and I was in desperate need of a shower. The father of my children looked around the room, and I knew he realized that he should not ask a certain question. I was wrong. He looked at me, sitting there with baby vomit drying in my hair and tenderly asked:
"What have you three been doing?"
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