Once you become a parent, you pretty much say goodbye to the days of “enjoying ill health.” No more days on the couch with the TV on, drifting in and out to the lineup on Food Network, no more lying in bed with a box of tissues, a bottle of Tylenol, and a couple fat novels. No, once the little people enter the picture, you’re up and doing no matter how lousy you feel. I’ll never forget the first time I came down with a stomach bug after Ben was born; we cuddled up in a nest of blankets and towels on the bathroom floor. Occasionally, I’d haul myself up and get quietly sick, then lie back down and nurse Ben. Or last summer, which I think of now as the Summer Of Strep (4 cases in as many months), when I had to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge to get a throat culture and antibiotics, running a 101 fever and, once I got to the doctor’s office, hauling Eli along in the sling. It felt like a good day, in the end, because I’d only had to take care of one kid.
This weekend, though, as I deal with my mystery bug (is it a cold? is it a stomach bug? is it strep again? who really knows?), I’ve had a taste of those old days. Tony took the boys for 3 days straight, leaving me to watch a couple movies, read a couple books, and spend more time in bed than I have in ages. Last night, I even pulled Ben briefly into my slothful state, as we cuddled up together, eating chocolate and watching March of the Penguins (this morning, he gave Tony an accurate census both of chocolate pieces consumed and penguin deaths witnessed).
The thing is, though, despite how lovely — and I’m sure restorative–it has been to rest, I’d much rather be up and hanging out with the guys, clamorous arguments and all. Turns out the old days have gotten a little old.