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| By My Littlest Angel |
Bon-Bon Day turned into a two-week tour. Menial tasks went MIA for a few days, then turned into seven days and then seven days times two. Seventh Heaven? I skipped exercise and cooking. I slept in and ate sweets. What seemed impossible and maybe even illegal, became my daily existence. It appeared I couldn’t get enough of the good life.
Seventh Heaven comes at a price. That lovely flu I had, worked it’s way into another vile disease or two and gave me too much of a good thing. It’s like the subconscious, or devil side took over. “Sock it to me! I want more of that lounge lizard stuff.”
I traded in movies for Mad Men. I rarely watch TV so I was behind three years. A girlfriend told me, sick or not, Mad Men is a must. Another friend said she would come over with a mask; she wanted a slice of heaven too. I might be sick, but I’m not stupid. I loaded up the Blue Ray and hunkered down in the family room. Girlfriend advice is the best.
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| Medicine |
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| Medicine |
Every day I thought I’d surely get better. I didn’t worry too much. I stuffed myself with gummy bears and junior mints, in between chicken noodle soup and applesauce. (Gummy Bears coat the throat and Junior Mints cool the bronchial pipes. And they taste great. No yucky cough-medicine after taste.) Anything healthy or leafy-green sounded disgusting. (Maybe I’m not sick. Doesn’t everyone wish they could eat this way?) Man, make it count if you go to the dark side. Besides, all my coughing was like doing sit-up intervals. It balances out. I’ll worry about my jeans later.
In all this gluttony, I realized a sick mom has a remarkable effect on the family. The most astonishing thing happened, my kids listened to me. Really listened to me. I think they were sick too. For me, I was lucky enough to have lost my voice. If you want to talk so your kids will listen, take up whispering. Both boys literally froze to hear me clearly.
“Wait a minute Mom. I need to roll up the window so I can hear what you are saying,” says the oldest on the way to football practice. (Still had taxi driver on my plate.) Usually it’s the no response, no acknowledgment of a conversation even taking place.
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| Pennies from Heaven |
My youngest gave me push back on the dishes; I whispered my reprimand. He stood dead in his tracks, deer-in-headlight eyes staring straight into mine. It was mesmerizing for both of us. I almost lost track of what I was saying.
And when things really got bad, sick of being sick, I resorted to a new communication strategy: texting. “Can you make me some soup and toast? Too dizzy.” Within minutes a tray arrived with my requests, along with the morning paper. A few minutes after that, the laptop and a stack of Mad Men DVDs appeared at my bedside. Another mini-miracle, my youngest heard me and actually thought outside the box and not just literally. He did more than I asked.
He surprised me further. I couldn’t stop doing my sit-up intervals; I was really hacking. The little guy runs into the family room and asks, “Do you want the puffer or maybe a pop tart?” The puffer is the inhaler for asthma, his fix for coughing. And the frosted strawberry pop tart was my other dark side treat. I went all the way on vices. Wine tasted like firewater, so the treats were a fair trade. Am I in the real heaven? Is Alex the angel I always wanted him to be?
When it was over, a blanket of calm covered the house. On my second night to cook, all the boys, including dad, were resting on their beds waiting for the call to dinner. I kept thinking, “Why isn’t anyone coming to help? Or to sneak a snack before dinner?” They earned their break and I was happy to be back in the saddle. Seventh Heaven can wait another fourteen years and maybe even forever as in never again. Too expensive.
Note: To avoid Seventh Heaven, wash your hands, wipe down shopping carts and wash your hands. If you want a Seventh Heaven, do the opposite.
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