I admit it. I'm a baby when it comes to being sick. If I dig far enough into my childhood to blame my parents for this (which I'm pretty good at) I'll tell you that it's my mom's fault, mostly.
My mom was the mom who had to see blood spurting from a gaping wound with a fever and a pulse rate under 30, before we could stay home from school. A mere sniffle or upset stomach was a joke. There was no such thing as a headache; kids don't get headaches, she'd say. I'll give you a headache.
Not that she didn't love us, don't get me wrong. She just didn't believe in whining, and you had to be really, really sick not to be considered a whiner. My mom would have laughed at the Swine Flu. Oh, for Pete's sake, get a Kleenex and put your shoes on. Quichyer bitchin'.
So, you see, I was deprived of sympathy and warm mugs of chicken noodle soup, right into adulthood. (And, need I say, the ability to dodge a math test when I needed to.) And here's the thing that really sucks: I married my mother. No, you know what I mean.
My poor husband, Mr. Strong Who Never Gets Sick. He's so not the Doting Husband. He's all about going to work with The Worst Cold Ever. Too much to do! The world might cease to spin should I stay in bed!
Good lord! All I want to do is watch back to back Roseanne reruns all day long, and for someone to make me (and bring me) soup; I want someone to check to make sure my blanket is covering my toes and that my little homemade hot pad (it's a tube sock filled with rice; aren't I brilliant?) is hot enough and positioned correctly across my shoulders. I'm trying not to whine, really, I am. I try not to make a little sad, moaning noise every few minutes when I have to reach for ANOTHER tissue. But why should I pretend I feel ok? Why should I fake it? That's just plain dishonest. And why on earth would I go to work when I feel like I'm standing on the edge of my grave? When I can barely inhale without launching into a black plague cough? (Oh, wait! I don't have a job! I wouldn't go to work if I were well!)
But there's no one here in my house who's banging down the door for the position of Wait on Mom Hand and Foot. Not even Jack, although he does try not to slam all the doors in the house while I'm trying to nap, as he runs through, yelling "Mommmmmm!! Where ARE you?"
Nope, it's just me feeling sorry for me. Me making soup for me, and me bringing it to me on the couch where I arrange my own blanket and heat up my own tube sock.
I want to be babied. Is that so much to ask?
Evidently, uh, yeah, it is.