House arrest by sick child

As of the writing of this post, dear readers, it has been three days. Yes, three full days of house arrest by sick child. I can’t run errands, go out for lunch, take my laptop to a local coffee shop or go for my morning run. (I totally WAS going to start running every morning this week! Never you mind.)

It started with a feeble complaint about not feeling well on Monday morning. I shrugged off the complaint as usual with a, “Well, let’s just get dressed and have some breakfast and then see how you feel.” But the kid did not want to get up and since he’s not one to manufacture illnesses, we figured, fine, let him stay home.

It was kind of a bummer because the only thing I look forward to more than the weekend is Monday morning. I’m a complicated creature, I know! As much as I love spending time together as a family, I really love being all by myself and working on my own things. Still, I was able to get my most pressing work done and spend some relaxing one-on-one time with my guy who honestly did not seem very sick at all. These things happen. At least he’ll be back to school tomorrow.

And he was. But after a restless night spent screaming, crying, moaning, and kicking at her mother because of an ear ache, it was the four-year-old’s turn to stay home on Tuesday. I got exceedingly little done with a clingy, whiny, but (again) a not-so-sick-after-all four-year-old under foot. It was enough to trigger flashbacks from a few years ago when I worked at home meeting daily deadlines with hordes* of sticky preschoolers, toddlers and babies constantly underfoot. (*hordes means three here)

I dug deep, though, and found just enough grace congealing in some dark recess of my soul to muster something of a prayer of gratitude. They will all be off to school tomorrow, I thought, and now I have been reminded of what a gift those precious few hours are. I will not squander them on Facebook or by obsessive-compulsively cross referencing restaurants that are offered on UberEats to Chris Nutall-Smith reviews before making myself a Cracker Barrel cheddar sandwich on Dempster’s brown bread. No, I will write the hell out of those hours and scour my house inside and out as a fun “change of pace” when I need to take a break from the writing. I will go for that morning run after all, goddammit!

So thank you. Thank you, not-quite-sick children for reminding me of the true value of our public education system. I vow never to take it for granted ever again.

Cue four o’clock in the morning and the four-year-old is once again crying out in the night. This time it’s not her ear, but her tummy and she does indeed wind up throwing up over and over (and over) again. Then, at breakfast, the nine-year-old also throws up (just a little, does that even count?), but sure, okay, you stay home too.

And now, here I am hiding in the kitchen with my laptop from these children who are NEITHER OF THEM HARDLY SICK AT ALL and constantly demanding to be fed, paid attention to and generally loved. And, guys, how can I even believe that tomorrow will be any different? Even if the nine-year-old is well enough to go back to school and even if the four-year-old can make it through the night, I also have a seven-year-old who must, by now, be a walking petri dish of viral infections just waiting to take bloom.

The question at this point is not, when will they all return to school, but how has there ever been a day when they were all three well enough to attend. It seems like an impossible fantasy; perhaps something I dreamed up or a cruel myth that people spread like “fat-free cheesecake” or “morning people.”

But, god help me, if they ever do go back to school, I will have the most productive morning you can possibly imagine — and then I’ll go out to lunch to celebrate.