One of the things you learn as a Mom is how to deal with a sick baby. It goes something like this.
Your first baby is born. When he is six months old, you notice he has a slight sniffle. You can't sleep with worry. You toss and turn all night. At four in the morning, you rush him to the hospital. The ER nurse says your baby is fine but expresses doubts about your mental fitness.
Your second baby is born. When she is a year old she throws up on your bed spread twice in the same day. You load her up on apple juice and Pedialite. You call your older sister and ask her what she fed her kids when they were sick. You resolve to take your baby to the doctor if she's still sick on Friday.
Your third baby is born. When she is two years she spews her dinner all over her dress, your shoes and the kitchen floor. After you clean up the mess and determine that she doesn't have a temperature, you strip her down to her diaper and send her out in the back yard to play on the swings. You figure that if she throws up again, it's easier if you can wash it away with the garden hose instead of scrubbing it off the floor.
It's not that the youngest child is being neglected. It's more that the first child was totally over-glected.
When it comes to being ill, the biggest baby in our house isn't Eric (almost 8), Emily (almost 5) or Beth (almost 3). The biggest baby in our house is........me.
I hate being sick. And when I am sick I wish for two things. First, I want to lie in my comfy bed and wrap myself up in my soft quilt and enjoy the quiet of my bedroom. Second, I want someone to wait on me hand and foot, to treat me like the Queen of England. I'm talking total royal treatment. Bring me a box of tissues, serve me some home made chicken soup and fluff my pillows.
Unfortunately, when I am sick, I only get half of my wish list. Ken is more than willing to corral the kids and keep them away so I can rest. He may bring me a glass of water, if I plead and whimper enough. But he refuses treat me like a queen. Despite my proclamations, he won't even bow or curtsy or address me as "Your Majesty".
It isn't that Ken is insensitive to my needs. He just assumes that my needs are the same as his. This is one of the many ways that Ken and I are very, very different.
When Ken is sick, he doesn't want to be babied. He doesn't want to be treated like a king, or a queen. He doesn't want anything. What he does want is to be left alone. As in don't bring me soup, don't talk to me, don't even look at me.
When Ken is sick, he isolates himself in the guest bedroom, closes the blinds and sleeps until his ailment passes. "Honey, I brought you some chicken soup." I'll say cheerfully as I tip toe into his lair.
But instead of smiling and saying "Thank You", he'll snarl and growl "Get Out." After sixteen years of marriage, you would think I'd learned my lesson.
This past weekend was a tough one. Emily was the first to get sick. Then, before I knew it, the rest of the munchkins were taking a turn. When Monday finally arrived and everyone was feeling better I breathed a sigh of relief. "Looks like we finally got everyone through this stomach bug." I said as I walked into our bed room.
The room was dark and still. The shades were drawn tight. Ken was buried under a heap of blankets.
"Get out." He snarled.
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