If mothers got sick days, the world would probably crash. Or at least the kids would run out of juice
The flu.
It descended upon our household like a tiny, invisible army of germs, and settled in for an extended stay. What began as a spike of fever and a relentless cough quickly morphed into the dreaded Flu A, joined with strep… and soon, some lucky family members were even graced with an additional wave of Flu B.
First, it was my son. He lay in bed, a pale, dramatic figure, moaning for lukewarm drinks. Then came my daughter, her voice a raspy whisper, eyes glazed, cheeks a flushed red. Even my baby wasn’t spared. Flu chose to strike my children one at a time, ensuring each received personal tender care and attention.
At all hours of the day, I was on call as day nurse and night nurse. I dispensed tissues, cooked gallons of chicken soup, and became intimately acquainted with the inside of our washing machine. I monitored temperatures, administered nasty-tasting Tamiflu, and somehow managed to keep the house from looking like a blizzard.
My own nose was a little stuffy, my throat a bit scratchy, but mothers are superheroes, right? We run on caffeine and sheer willpower. Plus, I had a mental checklist a mile long — laundry, supper, laundry, errands and laundry — and those things weren’t going to magically do themselves. Especially after my cleaning lady called in sick for a week. (Yes, she’d tested positive for flu.)
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