It is Wednesday morning - at least I think so - the January of my discontent, to bum a phrase. I'm looking at a closetful of clothes I once wore out on date nights with my husband or to dinner with friends. But that was in my other life, the one that existed three distant days ago. Pre-stomach bug. So today I will choose...well, I choose sweatpants.
To, you know, replace the sweatpants I wore to bed last night. Daytime sweatpants.
There's a stomach bug going around, so the fact that my three-year-old daughter caught it is not surprising, but dear God, how we parents, although prepared, are often pummeled by these non-suprising incidences.
At first it was fine, even nice, taking care of my little girl, who has grown independent enough these days that I have to ask for hugs. Day one of staying home from school was all television and back rubbing and assurance, and I felt like a very good mother.
Day two, when she was clearly improving but not quite over the hump, was where things got tricky.
"You know, we're only watching this much tv because you're sick, right?" I asked her in a forced effort at nobility, as though I wasn't glad as hell that children's television exists in such easily accessible formats.
"I'm not sick," she replied, and then I started in on explaining that while she was, indeed, getting better, it was still important to rest, before I remembered that she's three, and all she was trying to tell me was that she was worried that if she admitted feeling any residual feelings of illness, I might not let her have any snacks.
I was beyond compliant with her mixed-up sentiments on day one, when I was a good and patient mother, more than willing to sacrifice a day of doing anything else, to spend time with my child who needed me. I wished I could have the bug a million times over, rather than watch her suffer.
On day two, I felt the same, but the patience was waning. "Fine, you're not sick," I said. "Let's watch another Dora."
And as we we watched, and Swiper, yet again, was up to no good, and somehow it was still totally entertaining - I mean, still? - I thought about what kind of cocktails are appropriate for mothers home with sick children, who have not left the confines of their homes in a billion (two) days. Scotch, hot bath-side? Margarita, beachside? Martini in Vegas? Probably Vegas.
Which brings us to day three, when I awoke, and upon realizing it would be another day home, went for the most comfortable sweatpants. Guys, the brownest and softest ones, which I've tried to make part of an acceptable public ensemble for years, to no avail. They're inside pants, and on my most exhausting days of parenthood, those pants, and coffee, are the reason I get out of bed.
My daughter was almost fully back to normal, but not quite, prompting just one more day missing school, to ensure full recovery. But we were both frayed and battered, and when my husband left in the morning to take our nine-month-old to daycare and then head off to work, and said, "Have fun," I think we both questioned his sanity.
I also thought, briefly, about begging him to stay home in my place, while I happily retreated to the research lab where he works so that I could drink coffee make potions (because I know that's what you're up to, babe) but I summoned the remainder of that extra resolve you gain when you become a mother, and I said, "We will!"
But, "we won't," I thought, as I envisioned another day of television-watching, both of us bored and tired, and "we really won't," I thought when my daughter asked if she could watch "Barney," which is absolutely, without question, forbidden in this house, for obvious reasons, those reasons being: he is awful.
I compromised, allowing her to watch a cartoon version of "My Little Pony," which was, regrettably, on par with, if not worse than Barney. And I think the unfortunate program was a wake-up call for us both, because we finally turned off the tv and retreated upstairs, where I convinced my daughter to do some quiet drawing while I got some writing in.
Our normally cozy and entertaining house still feels ever-so-slightly like a prison (white-collar) but I see the light. Despite the fact that she just tried to convince me to give her cherry-flavored Tylenol - stating, "No, I am still sick" - when I told her she'd probably be able to go back to school tomorrow, and how did that sound, she answered, "Good."
Because there's a limit to such quarantine, even if three days is barely forever, and especially when your charge doesn't yet get how wonderful it can be to spend sick days in bed reading magazines. I will, however, remember the good times, like when we painted each other's toenails yesterday. I will remember them as I speed away from this house. Happily out and about at long last, only mild regret in leaving the elasticized waistband behind.
