It’s Monday. It’s the first of the month, so I’m feeling rich. The sun is shining and the world is my oyster. But there’s one caveat: I’m sick today.
No, I’m not pregnant. It’s the headache, my glands are swollen, my neck hurts and I’m just not quite right kind of sickness. I’ve taken a hot shower and three Tylenol and I’m able to sit up and type, but I don’t know how much more of even this I can do.
The challenge is, it’s not like I can take the day off. I can’t just call in sick. Kids still need to be fed, diapers need to be changed, and entertainment provided. A three year old and one year old are surprisingly high maintenance.
My mother used to get us grape juice popsicles and gingerale with crushed ice and bendy straws. There was a roll away bed we dubbed “the sick bed” that got wheeled into mom and dad’s room where we could recuperate in full view of a TV. Dad would call home before leaving work and ask what kind of milk shake the patient required. Ah, those were good sick days.
But Dora is over now. Luke has emerged from the play room. We are out of eggs, bread and milk. I’m going to go pull on my snuggliest coat and brave the store to avoid an uprising later. When we return I’ll declare martial law and enforce mandatory naps.
Whenever my kids get sick, they inevitably ask why God allows them to be so miserable. I always answer, “so you will be thankful for all the days you are well.”
Now it’s my turn to be thankful. Achy, but thankful.