red mod

SNOT FOR SALE
Day 13. Ear infection. Upper respiratory infection. Bronchitis. Stay-at-home mom. Snot good.

As I sit here typing, unable to breath out of my nose, I can't help but wish I had my office job back. As a stay-at-home mom there are good days and bad days. But nothing compares to being a SICK stay-at-home mom. In fact, I've determined that it should be outlawed. Since I've been sick I've been having daydreams of being at my old job. My office is quiet. My computer is on. The overhead lights are off. I have an entire box of Kleenex at my disposal for blowing my nose (and not just toilet paper on a roll, but one of those cute designer Kleenex boxes). I glance down and witness the tall, white tower growing out of my personal wastebasket and I am impressed with myself. I work diligently on my projects, uninterrupted with an occasional trip to the restroom, coffee pot or for an hour-long lunch break-- in solitude. My boss trusts that I'm getting the job done. The phone rings and it's a client wanting to follow up with me on their project. They hear my congested voice and wonder why I'm not at home. They feel sorry for me yet appreciate the fact that I keep plugging away on their project, miserable or not. I feel valuable for a minute. I hang up the phone and continue with my day. All in silence. All for a little sugar-sugar that I could use to purchase that new Orla Kiely purse at Nordstrom.

At home? Turns out not so Laura Ingalls-ish prancing in the fields. When you're a sick stay-at-mom home nothing really changes with the routine. It's just that the routine gets harder. Much harder. The challenge is you just don't have the energy or the patience to keep up with it. The day is non-stop. The day is noisy. The day crawls. You're looking at your watch at 10:00 in the morning hoping that your husband comes home straight from work . . . take the inside lane, run the red light and skip the gas station sweet cheeks because the baton is ready. You tell yourself over and over that you should really change your clothes for the first time in days and get the kids out of the house but you can't make it to that first step because you're not 100% sure you can handle the challenge. At least not in public anyway. So as a result, the kids are climbing the walls-- and you. The TV is on all day. They've lost interest. You're somewhat relieved at the thought that they might not be addicted to the tube after all . . . but now what? The couch has become their playground. The living room their closet. The interaction between you and your kids is short, unpleasant and minimal. It's bad enough that you feel sick but you also feel guilty. Because you really don't like your kids at the moment. All you really want to do is go into your room, shut the door and sleep the snot away. But you can't do that because you have to stay in the game. You have to play referee, wipe tears, feed, clean, wipe noses, wipe the sofa, find a pacifier, set up the paint, clean up the paint, wipe more tears, feed, clean, wipe noses, wipe the sofa, find another pacifier, set up the paint, clean up the paint. . . . try hard to remember when--IF--you took your last round of antibiotics and pray that the phone rings with the hope that it's someone checking in on you.
Because sometimes that's all it takes to make you feel better-- even for just a moment.

That's what moms are for. And it's certainly times like these when I miss mine the most. I find myself daydreaming again . . . my mom calls and instantly knows that I'm miserable. Because she knows. She wants to know the color of my mucus, the names of my medication, and what kind of soup she should make (yet she already knows it's the one with the super big noodles). She wants to look in my ears. She worries that I'm taking 3 different kinds of medication yet her curiosity is comforting and anything but stifling. I can tell her how badly I feel without her suggesting or thinking that I'm feeling sorry for myself. I hear my dad in the background making some kind of reference to "medicine." It's the chocolate-covered kind. My mom offers to watch the kids while I shower, nap, leave the house for 10 minutes and I can say yes to her and not worry about what the house looks like. She shows up at the door, takes one look at me and says, "Oh honey." I feel better instantly because she knows. I ask her how she survived times like these . . . with 3 young kids (2 boys, one hyperactive . . . God luv ya, Matt). She tells me it's okay to do nothing all day. She convinces me that the girls are going to be okay even though they've been eating nothing but chicken nuggets and ketchup for the past 5 days. She's not fazed by the amount of time the TV is on. Or by the vertical nature of my hair. Or by the amount of Double-Bubble I've managed to stuff in my mouth amidst the chaos. (She's a little curious about the "vampire" book she spots on the table but she knows that the timing is all wrong, so she skips by it and saves the discussion for another time). But she's really not fazed by anything at all. She's really not fazed because she's been there. She knows what it's like to be in full-blown survival mode. And she remembers that it's exhausting. And that it's hard. And that it's lonely, especially without your mom. And so there is no judgement and there is no criticism. Just pure unconditional love.

And that is medicine in itself.