I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville wife and mother with a passion for family travel, (mostly) healthy cooking, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries with you, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark.
August 13, 2007
Yesterday morning, I woke up and I cried. And this was no single-pretty-tear-quietly-rolling-down-one-cheek cry; no, I scrunched up my face and hiccuped and wept and would have even made honking noises, had I the voice to do so.
For the fifth straight day, I was sick with a fever, congestion and an excruciatingly sore throat. Instead of getting better, I had gotten worse. And with two small children, even with Hubs home to help out, there was no possibility of getting the complete and total rest I desperately needed in order to get well. In short, I wanted my mommy.
Is it just me, or do we all wish for our moms when we get sick? My mom used to fix me egg sandwiches and cream of mushroom soup and bring them to my room on trays while I lay feebly in bed and watched back-to-back episodes of Little House on the Prairie on TBS. When I was older, my mom would often stay in her pajamas, too, and we’d recline on down pillows in her king-sized bed and watch talk shows all day. An extended illness merited a selection of movies (The Sound of Music, The King and I) from the video store and takeout from a nearby restaurant. Getting sick was almost a celebration; she seemed glad to have me home for a change and spent her entire day taking care of me. And I totally took it for granted.
Now, I have a baby who’s waking up every morning at 5:30am and needs to be breastfed every 3 hours. Now, I have a preschooler who has watched entirely too much TV this week and wants to be read to, despite the fact that talking makes me feel like I’m swallowing razor blades. Now, I have a husband who has taken too many sick days for me already and must go into work. Now, I have two teenage stepdaughters who start school next week and need more attention than I can give them right now.
And now, I just want my mom to come and tell me to stay in bed, to bring me my meals on trays, to sit with me and watch Elizabeth Taylor movies, and to make it all better. It’s hard to accept that those days are over.
I’m lucky to have a husband who, after a long week of working in 100-degree heat, has taken the 5:30am shift and let me sleep in a few extra hours. He’s done everything he can possibly do for me these last few days, all without complaining. I think about single moms and wonder how on earth they manage when they get sick; if I hadn’t had my husband around yesterday, in particular, I don’t know how I would have managed. Today, I’ve finally rounded the bend and am starting to get well (but only after calling my doctor’s answering service and demanding drugs). I’m pretty sure I’ll be back to my normal self by next week.
I can’t get those days back of being cared for around the clock by my mom. But I can, I’ve realized, take better care of myself. I can let my 3-year-old wear the DVD player out for a week while I recuperate. I can go to bed early. I can let the housekeeping go for a few days. I can take my vitamins every day, rather than a few times a month.
And I can recreate the feeling my mom gave me for my own children when they get sick, knowing that they may take it for granted while they’re young, but some day they’ll grow up and realize the tremendous love that was evident in every made-to-order sickbed meal of their youth, in every day that was spent catering to their every whim. And maybe they’ll pass that tradition on to their kids.
Who knew that being a parent would force me to grow up in so many ways?
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.