This is how I remember being sick as a kid:
Curled up in front of the television. Warm blanket. One of my parents taking the day off work to take care of me. All responsibilities put on hold for the day. Soothing foods like custard and tea to help me get back on my feet.
Getting sick as an adult is … not like that. But it turns out that even 20 years after my last childhood sick day, my parents can still take care of me.
Monday morning, as my son Will and I were beginning a long visit at my parents’ house, I woke up feeling queasy. Headache-y. Cruddy. Not a good sign.
“Go back to bed,” my dad said, “I’ll take care of Will.”
“Are you sure?” I said. Will adores my dad and vice versa, and I know they have fun together. But I always feel like I’m shirking my responsibility a bit when I leave them together and go blithely on my way … even when I’m staring down gastroenteritis.
“Yes,” he said. “Go, go.”
Shirker or no, I went. And then … well. Let’s just say I had a date with the Technicolor yawn.
Now, I have parented while sick before. Last spring, I had a similar stomach bug, but we were at home and my husband was out of town. So I was on my own. I alternated trips to the bathroom with sessions of half-sleep on the sofa, while Will watched way too much television. I tried to keep him from seeing my dry heaves. But, as preschoolers have zero regards for bathroom privacy, of course he pushed his way in. As I retched, he patted my shoulder and melted my heart: “It be okay, Mommy.”
So I knew I could do it.
I made a feeble effort. But thankfully, Dad saved me from myself. He sent me back to bed again and entertained Will while I alternated trips to the bathroom with sessions of full sleep in a real bed. Will watched some television, but he also went to the library and the park. He was spared the sight of my dry heaves. And at the end of the day, my sickness on the wane, he melted my heart: “I glad you feeling better, Mommy.”
I’ve never been good at accepting help. And parenthood, particularly stay-at-home parenthood, didn’t make that any easier. Since I was responsible for Will so much of the time, it began to feel like a dereliction of duty if I weren’t responsible for him 24/7.
This feeling began to fade when he was about four months old, around the time I realized I was never going to be able to pump enough breastmilk to build a freezer stash, and it wouldn’t kill him to have a bottle of formula while I got my hair cut. But still, I want to be the one who does things for my baby. To take his cares away, to make him feel better, to help him get back on his feet when he falls.
The thing I just figured out is this: Maybe, even after all these years, my parents still feel the same way. And I can be their child while still being my son’s mother.
