Taking a Sick Day

Wednesday was a big day for me. Or at least it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be the first day of solitude since December 23, the day my kids started Christmas vacation. I had a whole list of things planned, and first would be some time alone reading in bed with a very large mug of hot chocolate. Then some serious writing time at the computer, followed by a few magazines, perhaps a trip to the library, and to top things off, a big nap.

But it was not to be. 

Everything started out normally. The alarm went off—which is to say my cat jumped onto the bed and rammed her wet nose against my cheek, then started palpitating my chest with freshly sharpened nails. Then my husband’s alarm clock clicked on to talk radio. (For some reason, he enjoys waking up to the sound of people arguing about sports.) My husband moaned and swung his arm towards the noise. Without opening his eyes, he found the snooze button and pressed it. 

While my husband dozed, I tiptoed to the basement to read and exercise. Eventually, I heard the sounds of doors opening, running water, and one kid yelling, “Wrap it up, would’ya?” to another who apparently was hogging the hot water again. Immediately after that, the water stopped and there was the hiss of aerosol deodorant being sprayed, then the scrape of a stool along the kitchen floor as another someone sat down to eat breakfast. From where I was hiding, it sounded like the morning was moving right along, and soon I would have six hours all to myself. 

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about parenthood it’s this: the minute you plan something and look forward to it, one or more kids will either barf or get a sore throat. That’s why, when my husband told me that our youngest said he had a tummy ache and was at that moment crying in his bed, I wasn’t surprised. Disappointed, yes. But not surprised. In that instant, my plans vanished. Instead of spending hours at the library, I would be forced to stay home and do something heinous, like clean up vomit. Or do laundry. 

However, after everyone left, my dear sweet little boy hopped downstairs carrying a Beverly Cleary Ramona book. Smiling in his most endearing way, he asked, “Will you read this to me?”  There was no evidence of tears, no clutching of the stomach, no groaning, no labored breathing to manage the nausea. The kid looked healthier than I had felt in years. 

“Are you really sick?” I said. My youngest bent at his waist and turned his lips down.

“A little,” he said, his voice now suspiciously shaky and small. He stumbled over to the couch and lay down, wrapped himself in a blanket, and said, “Ohhh, my stomach.” I knew he was well enough to go to school. Yet rather than force him to go, I decided this was the perfect opportunity to teach this child a lesson about honesty. Plus, I needed to make sure this wouldn’t become a habit, thereby ruining my secret life without the children.

“Well, if you stay home, don’t expect to watch movies or play video games,” I said in my sternest voice. “You’ll have to stay in bed and read or sleep all day, and I mean all day.” He trudged up the stairs and obeyed my orders. Of course, I couldn’t resist making two mugs of hot chocolate and reading a chapter of Ramona to him. But when the cups sat empty and the chapter ended, I closed the book. “Well, it’s naptime for you,” I said.

“Awww,” my youngest grumbled as I left the room. 

“But you must rest to get better,” I hollered over my shoulder, resisting the urge to cackle. My evil plan was working. The child was so bored, going to school would seem entertaining in comparison.   

But the best teaching moment of all happened later that afternoon, when my other kids came home from school and asked if I would take them to play basketball at the church gymnasium. “Ooooh,” my youngest cried, “can I go too?” 

“Heavens no,” I told him. “You’re sick. If you’re too sick to go to school, you’re too sick to go play basketball.”

That did it. He snapped. Without thinking, he said, “But I’m not sick.” Then he caught himself.  “What I mean was, I was sick this morning, but I’m not now.” He tried to smile, the kind of cheesy smile he saves for school pictures and bribery.

It was too late, though. I had already decided that he had to take the full dose of medicine in order to recover fully. So while his brothers went to the gym, he stayed home and thought things over. By bedtime he was miraculously healed. “Mom,” he said as I tucked him in, “wake me up at seven o’clock tomorrow.”

“Why so early?” I asked.

“I want to be sure I make it to school on time,” he said.

Sure enough, when I tapped him on the shoulder the next morning, he didn’t even fuss. Instead, he jumped out of bed and got himself ready in less than ten minutes.  

While I wasn’t alone on Wednesday, as it turned out I did get to read in bed and drink hot chocolate. It just wasn’t my bed or my book. But that’s all right. I taught my child an important lesson: Don't mess with Mom's secret life without children.

Comments

[MaryB]

Good one! I just can't believe you haven't had to do this in the past 7 years! My kids are all big and I STILL have to teach this lesson once in a while! (However, I have learned that teenagers really don't mind sleeping all day...so I need to come up with another plan).

[michelle]

And mothers all laughed around the world!

[LauraB.]

Score one for the mother!!! Way to go Susan.