I’m been absent this past week due to illness. Not just the rather blah sort of illness, but the kind where you can’t eat for three days, and can’t get out of bed for a couple more. I’m much better now, but still catching up.
Of course my illness came at the inconvenience of others.
My husband’s employer already had him scheduled to be out-of-town. How dare my body choose that week to break down and demand attention? That was definitely bad timing on my part. With my Knight away I soldiered on picking up the slack. Several times if I questioned if could actually get everything done.
My swirling, aching tummy added with Prince Charming’s early school hours, compounded by three soccer practices in two days, multiplied by the new school area Buttercup desperately needed (and I needed to clean up and out), divided by my normal every day schedule was about to equal a giant migraine. Something else I did not need.
Fortunately Buttercup has a wonderful motherly instinct, and she loves to care for me when I’m ill. She’ll stroke my hair and kiss my forehead. Drinks and snacks appear on my nightstand. She brings me stuffed animals to cuddle, and I have to cuddle them—that’s non-negotiable. It’s annoying having giant pillow pets shoved under your arm, and usually once she’s out of the room, I toss them from the bed.
Later she’ll want to know how it ended up on the floor, and I use the same excuse I’ve used since she was five: “It wanted out of bed, so it jumped out by itself.” Of course I get the pouty face, evil eye look. Those blue eyes can burn holes right through you. Yep, by the time she’s a mom, she’ll definitely have “the look” mastered.
As for Prince Charming, as much as I hate to admit it, he’s grown. My sweet, cuddly little boy is grown. He’s turned into, dare I say it, a man. Give me a minute to gather myself.
I’m sure many of you can relate to the heartache of losing your baby boy to adulthood, but that’s not the reason for my grief. My grief is for being too good of a mom.
Like most grown men, he still thinks mom can and will do everything. He sees me as some kind of non-stop superwoman who is always ready to cook, wash, transport, or spit out cash at a moment’s notice. I know he’s starting to realize the sacrifices I’ve made for him, and still make. I just wonder what he’s going to do when he goes off to college next year. I guess he needs to learn how to wash clothes. He’s mastered scrubbing floors; he’s done that enough for sassing me. As for all the other basic household chores I know he can do, but doesn’t. That will be between him and his roommates.
I ain’t gonna be living there.
And I ain’t gonna go clean it up.
Even with the crazy, cock-eyed week where not a lot was accomplished, I can say my kids are great. I may not have taught them everything I wanted, but I know they will survive in the wild jungle of the world.