I’ve had the flu all week, but I’ve been making a half-hearted attempt to push through my responsibilities anyway, going to work and spewing my germs around, grocery shopping, cooking for my guys, folding clothes, reading Jude books and cleaning up his poopy diapers. Last night I hit a wall. You know how there’s always some entertainer on a world tour who suddenly “collapses from nervous exhaustion”? Well, that’s where I was heading.
My son does not like me being sick and tells me so. “Mommy no sick!” He playfully banged my head with a heart-shaped Tweety Bird balloon as I languished in bed last night, mouth breathing with a fever. It’s hard when the family nurturer breaks down.
Times like these I crave my mom. I get real sentimental for how she took care of me when I was sick as a child. She nurtured with a light touch, and required nothing of me. She often brought me a soft-boiled egg, cut up and salted in a white bowl. The house would be quiet and warm, I’d have a freshly-filled glass of water beside the bed, and a smear of Mentholatum on my nose.
Yesterday I bought a little pot of VapoRub at Walgreens and made myself an egg for dinner, trying to capture some of that magic. But it just wasn’t the same.