Cry me a river, I know. I love being a mother. I would choose it over anything else in my life.
Holy though. Have you ever had a day when you didn’t think you could put one foot in front of the other because your head ached-throat hurt-couldn’t stop puking? This week, I’ve got something going on that’s making me feverish and making every inch of my body hurt, especially everything from my collar bones and up.
On Monday, I would’ve given a lot of things for a sick day. But I’m the kids’ chauffeur. So if I stayed home, they’d have also stayed home. Decidedly, I’d get more rest at my desk in the office.
The next morning when I was taking an extra 30 minutes to sleep, hoping in vain to muster an ounce of extra energy, the oldest came in and started to hoist himself up in bed with me. I promptly told him to go get dressed for school because, despite all appearances, I was planning to get up and make some sort of attempt to get to work on time. His response? Big, sad tears. “He’s worried about you,” husband mouthed to me from behind the preschooler’s back.
He doesn’t see me down and out often. I can usually fake it til I make it, but this virus has kicked my ass in ways I didn’t know possible.
In that moment, I realized that no matter how happy or sad, loving or cranky, well or sick I feel, in his eyes, I’m always just mama. Kids have a magical way of not differentiating. We can be frustrated at each other one minute, and snuggling on the couch the next. It’s probably the best part of being theirs.
And honestly, I wouldn’t trade that for any number of sick days.