Who Invented Sick Days, and Why Wasn’t I Invited?
Well it turns out Dash’s cold is more of a sinus infection coupled with a middle ear infection. Those of you who have found the time to fit his medical record into your busy schedules know how sensitive he is to otitis media, and are probably pulling out your rosaries for me as you read this.
When Dash is sick, he turns into kid impossible - nothing is good enough. Nothing I cook, nothing we watch, nothing we read, absolutely nothing is good enough. I admit it freely: my son becomes a cranky snob when he is under the weather.
Just a moment ago, M. made him an egg and cheese croissant. Do you know what I would do for a homemade egg and cheese croissant? I’d rather not say in this public forum, but you get the idea, I’m sure. So Dash is presented with a perfectly buttery and crispy croissant sandwich and what does he do? He arches his back and yells, “NO MORE FOOD DADDY!” wailing and flailing about in his father’s arms, crying real tears and reaching for me, his savior from croissants.
Fine, he’s not hungry, but do we need the dramatics?
I tucked him in bed with his bunny, and his new little Dora doll he got for Christmas. “Mama, poof?” he asks. Fine, I go get his bath loofah from the bathroom. “Mama? Juice?” Ok, juice, yes, that is reasonable. “Mama? Teddy?” Alright, the teddy bear my father got as a gift from his bank is pulled off the shelf. “Mama…blocks.” Ok, now it isn’t a question, it’s a demand. “Blocks? In bed? Are you for real?”
“Yes momma. Blocks.”
Thirty minutes later, the child is laying in his bed, surrounded by various toys, books, and loofahs, and I am ready to turn out the light. The room is clean, though, seeing as how almost everything that was on the floor is now piled up on his bed. He’s sick, he deserves it, I rationalize in my head.
“Movie?”
“How about some music instead?”
He sighs. “Okay.”
Three CDs later, he decides on Beethoven (the classic Daschel move, waiting until the last choice is up, then asking for the first option again), and I’m on the verge of pulling all my hair out. I turn out the light and adjust the volume on the CD player.
“Goodnight, Dash.”
“Mama?”
1, 2, 3 . . . I start counting to ten in anticipation of what is coming. He probably wants to know if I can pull a star down for him out of the sky, or would I please go get the unicorn out of the barn so he can fall asleep on her soft mane.
“What is it, Dash?” I make an effort to not sound impatient, so purposefully, any adult would know I was full of shit.
“Kiss?”
I think I said once that mother automatically know how to guilt their children, because they’ve spent years feeling guilty themselves. This is the nail in my guilt coffin — leaning over to kiss my son on his forehead before he goes to sleep, feeling a soft sadness as I close the door and fail to hear another request.
“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”
“Bye bye, Momma.” He waves, letting me know he is ready for me to leave.
But I stood outside his door for a few more minutes, just in case.
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