By Heather O.
Every year I do this. I think of what I would like to blog about, and I can’t think of anything. So, I go through the archives of the blog to see what I was doing LAST July, or July of whenever, and I’ve noticed a pattern.
Last July, there isn’t a single blog post in the archive. None. Zip. Nada.
I think it’s because heat makes my brain slow down.
Also, July looks a lot like June. Swim team, library reading program, various camps that I managed to sign the kids up for, and just general effort to get out of the heat. There just isn’t all that much to write about, unless you care that my daughter is obsessed with Fancy Nancy books, and my son is aiming for the million point club at the library by reading every single Artemis Fowl book.
I think there’s, like, 100. Or, whatever.
Basically, in July, we read and swim. Because July in Virginia sucks.
When a kid gets heat stroke from swimming IN the pool, you know you have a problem.
Every year it’s the same. Every year we suffer through, and every year around this time, I think we’re all going to die. Except this time, I really feel like that, because I’m currently running a fever of over 101. If I thought I was hot before….
I never quite know how to handle being sick. Am I supposed to power through it? Is that what tough moms do? I know these types of mothers, who are walking zombies and yet still manage to clean their house and ferry their kids and feed them something that doesn’t have a toy in the bottom of the bag.
But I’m not that kind of mom. I huddle, I retreat, I close the blinds in my bedroom and moan. Or sleep. Or watch re-runs of some 80’s show on Netflix.
Also, I don’t like sharing my germs with other people. I’m far from a germaphobe, but do people really WANT me slogging through the grocery store, using the grocery cart as support, while I fondle bananas and leave germs swipes on milk handles and infect the credit card key pad?
(You’re reaching for the sanitizer as I speak, I can feel it.)
I appreciate when moms keep their sick kids and their sick selves at home. Seriously. I also learned my lesson about dragging a sick carcass to work. One day I had bronchitis and went to work anyway. I was working at a skilled nursing facility as an SLP. I had one patient to see, I needed the money (I was on an hourly wage) and I figured I’d wash my hands really really well and all would be okay.
My immuno-surpressed 85 year old patient got bronchitis and almost died. All of the nurses wondered where on earth she could have picked it up, because nobody else was sick. I. Felt. Horrible. And vowed that I would never EVER go into work sick again.
But my husband can pick up only so much slack. He can come home early from work to take the kids to the swim meet, and he can even pick up KFC on the way home (no toys–does that count as a win?) and even walk the dog for 10 minutes. But that means he doesn’t have time to find the team suits for the kids, to gather up goggles and towels and shirts and so I have to stumble through the house, kicking aside laundry I’m too sick to wash, looking for suits so my kids don’t go to the swim meet naked. Or, heaven forbid, wearing the wrong swim suit.
And tomorrow, can my husband take the entire day off so I can moan? Not likely. His job is blessedly extremely flexible, but we’ve flexed it quite enough this summer.
So I guess regardless, moms do have to power through it, somewhat, as my children need attention. Not a lot these days—we are well past the toddler years, thanks goodness–but some. It’s just the way things are.
I’m trying to think of something else to say, but really, I’m out. Thanks for reading. If you’re still checking this blog after months of inactivity, I’m very, very impressed.
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