Why Mothers Shouldn’t Get Sick and Other Short Unsarcastic Stories

What a week. Ian and I got sick the very same day – last Monday. Fluke, or something to do with him wanting to brush my teeth for me. My guess is the latter. His developed into an ear infection by Thursday and he was also diagnosed with an upper respiratory infection. Me? I had to suffer in almost silence. Silence except for the hacking up a lung cough every 30 minutes. I learnt one baby too late that a nursing mother shouldn’t inhale decongestant medicine when she’s deathly sick. Or basically anything with an antihistamine. It stops supply. Information I could have done with a long time ago. Of course it means waiting it out by yourself, with only Tylenol and a Fisherman’s Friend for comfort. (Don’t worry, I’ve heard ALL those jokes this week from Bryan.)

I don’t know if it’s psychological, but knowing I couldn’t take anything somehow made me feel worse. Sore throat, painful eyes, a snotty nose, tight chest, weak muscles in legs and arms. And no will to do anything but sleep. Mothers can’t afford to get sick. I learned this lesson when my own Mum was so sick one time, she actually stayed in bed. Nobody should have to eat food that’s a sorry duplication for your good ole Mum’s.


There were nights when I actually felt like cooking, and even better, when I had an appetite. One night I tackled pork chops with a breadcrumb/Parmesan cheese/Italian herbs coating. They’d been in my freezer for a short time, but I’d forgotten about them. Feeling like I was still walking around in a haze, my confidence in cooking something edible was scratchy at best.

Presenting the dish, it came with my own side of perfectionist criticism.

“I hope it tastes okay, but I’ve probably overcooked the chops, they look dry. Don’t expect them to taste as good as they did last time I made them, they’re probably freezer burned now.”

“They’re…o-k-a-y”, he said, sounding a little reluctant.

“Oh well, that’s what I thought.”

A few minutes later, I heard a very emphatic, “It’s good!”

“I’m sorry, we’re going to have to accept your first answer!”


I dunno what’s going on. I think having young children around is making me less sarcastic. At least in my writing anyway. I used to be cool, but now I’ve been domesticated like a cheap Barbie import knock-off. But in a good way. It’s amazing how fast Cameron is growing. My favourite thing to do is make him laugh. Sometimes it comes out as a tiny little breath, but his smile is so heart-warming, it’s all I can do to not cry.

Cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
For babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby,
and babies don’t keep!

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