Type B Takes a Sick Day

Here's why getting sick isn't an option for me (or for most moms, generally):

Because we live more than 300 miles from family.

Because I don't have a daycare to use.

Because all of our friends work every day. And if I'm completely honest? I wouldn't saddle anyone with all uh dis even if they didn't.

And because my husband has a job that he can't just say, "Alright doctor friends. I'm not coming in today. Take my patients. The ole wife is sick. Gotta play with the baby so she can curl up in a ball and shake her sweaty self to death for 24 hours in peace."

Despite aforementioned reasons that it absolutely can't happen, it happened on Monday night.

Conveniently, the delirium was sandwiched between two sets of weekend visitors, so I didn't skip a beat. Speaking of, was I the only kid who only got sick on Friday night or, if my body planned an extended illness, during vacation or snow days?

While I'm fit as a fiddle now, I look back and realize that Tuesday was - and I'll be the first to say it - not my best parenting day ever. Or either it was my best ever, considering the circumstances.

First, I peeled my tired, shivering body out of bed at 6:00 a.m., at the first "Heeeey (like a game show voice, like.. Bob Barker) Momma!" and reluctantly took a baby-momma-approved Tylenol, knowing I needed a miracle. Not "a" Tylenol. Maybe 5 or 6 would have worked. I digress.

After my fever broke during a second showing of Dora, I threw on some clothes that weren't drenched in sweat and put Harper - my 100 lb (that's how she felt) toddler - in her car seat and drove to our appointment with an insurance adjuster.

Just when I had lost all faith in humanity, I found out later in the day that we'll be getting reimbursed from our parking lot fender bender a few weeks ago with the old lady who made Brandon yell. 

As we left our appointment, I felt chills invade and travel all the way down to my toes and knew that I only had a good 30 minutes before I could do no more than resume my "I am surely dying" position, albeit upright, on the floor or on the couch with Harper.

Since we hadn't washed the car in three weeks for fear of monkeying with the "evidence" of the Mercedes bumper attack, I decided we needed to go to the car wash immediately. Which Harper hates with the fire of 1,000 suns.

So we pulled into the black abyss of water and brushes and scrubbers and loudness and Harper lost it (like usual, which is why I never take her), and I sat. Resigned. I closed my eyes, grateful for the moment of no responsibility and snaked my hand back and patted Harper's leg comfortingly. . . . . but it was wet.

I turned as quickly as my achy body could manage to find that - while it was no U-571 - Harper was taking a healthy spray of lukewarm water to the dome every 3 seconds or so. . . . which may or may not have have contributed to her terrified screams.

Water boarding complete, we went home where she napped off the trauma (and I slept and sweated and shook) for three hours. 

Then, she woke up and wanted ice cream cake for lunch and I let her have it. Just that. Just cake.

And when she took a bath to remove the blue tattoo sleeve she created with icing, I sat nearby, shaking and sweating and helplessly hoping the water would wash it off, b/c there was no way I could do anything more than sit nearby, shake and sweat.

Icing free, she announced in garbled toddler that she wanted to go to the attic and play with her old toys. Which is usually fine, but on Tuesday, it was well above 90 degrees up there, and I said to myself, "Wow. That'll feel really, really good! I won't be cold!" and so for a few minutes (literally three) I sat nearby while she played until she proclaimed it to be "We we (really really) hot." Sweating, but not shaking, I carried my 150 lb. toddler downstairs.

After a few ragged, throaty, whiny calls to my husband begging him to please hurry home and rhetorically warbling to myself about how 'if I'm this big of a baby with one baby, how can I manage being sick with two babies,' and lots of Dora, mercifully, Brandon arrived.

I dragged myself out of three layers of sweaty clothes and into the shower where I shook and presumably sweated while Brandon did the lion's share of the nightly routine. 

Though I did manage to squeak out a few books, a few songs, pick up our 200 lb. toddler and put her to bed - all while hitting a personal record high temperature of 102.0 - I wasn't good for much after that and was ordered to bed at 8:15.

Thank the sweet Lord, I woke up better and with a new appreciation of life at 98.6 degrees.

Strangely, I have a picture I don't remember taking, which pretty much sums up how the day went: