Coughing Family

Of course, we aren't quite sick enough to ask my hard-working beloved life partner to use her scarce leave, so we are stuck at home with one another and these long days trying to get enough rest and food to get better.

And I'm tormented by the memory of being sick, and longing in bed, with pay, knowing that I'd be healing quickly even as I sipped my OJ and watched boat-loads of TV and read novel after novel, only gradually slipping into the bliss of a spontaneous nap, and then recovering the next day. As a parent, I'm pretty sure I've have colds that lasted an entire official season. And it seems like adults are a lot whinier than kids, at least on the inside, especially when my mommy isn't anywhere near, and I'm the one everyone is looking to for comfort.

There are amusing stories. Earlier today my son ended up with a fair amount of egg smushed into his hair. Now, bear in mind that he is at that age where a no-cry, no-threats diaper change can easily consume 60 minutes, and he routinely delays shirt removals (oh cursed shirt removal) for a few days (in fact, one benefit of the short but crying diaper change, is that I've already lost his favor so thoroughly that stealing all his clothes at the same time isn't even noticed). And bear in mind that he slept late so his nap schedule was disrupted, and that the coughing sickness he is afflicted with has also apparently taken his appetite, so he'd really only thrown the previous meals around, not actually eaten a discernible amount. To complete the picture, since the feverish days of last week, he's been using the binky (what we call a pacifier) about 100% of the time. I'm ravenous, having in my sickened state driven all the way to Bethesda Bagels, ordered two bagels and two bagel-dogs, watched them being made, and then discovering that I'd left my credit card on the floor where I paid for the last-minute-tax-prep software I bought last night. So we drove on home, after mourning the loss of OJ and bagel dogs.

I am in the kitchen, having sold my son on the idea of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and looking forward to having one or two myself. But something went wrong. I started cutting the sandwich and then asked if he wanted it cut. Now, this cut-food dilemma is one I can easily handle when I'm well. Unlike my first child, who was asked at each sandwich cutting event which of eight distinct cutting methods she preferred, my second child only gets sandwiches cut already in half. It's not been in the realm of choice.

But, deliriously tired, I started to cut and then showed him the partially cut sandwich. He was tipped over into a paroxysm of grief which lasted, unintelligibly, the entire time I sat and ate my own yummy sandwiches. The eggs from the earlier thrown meals, his binky alternately hurled in anger and then desperately chewed on, his red and tearful face, his down coat, it all got rolled around into one big messy ball, yell, "no ***binky mumble*** cut sandwich *** want *** waaaah!" Despite offers of variously cut and uncut sandwiches, nothing soothed him. "No lap *** no chair *** no dad *** wanted *** sandwich."

The thing that I felt marked me as an experienced parent is that while I continued periodic attempts to see if he could accept some comfort and to see if his tearful words were in any way intelligible, my own eating wasn't slowed down nor even rendered less yummy.

When I was done, I slid him out from under the table and plopped him, still sad, into the car seat and went for a car-assisted nap initiation. He fell asleep before we crossed Piney Branch, still with egg mixed into his hair. We've been averaging about 1.5 baths per day this week, and this with some days of no baths because of no clothes coming off.