Moms don’t really get sick days. We have to suck it up, unless we do things like almost bleed out on the bathroom floor and our husbands have to call the ambulance to come take us to the ER. Then we get a pass. Um. Not that that has ever happened to me or anything.
When I was little sick days were awesome.
I would go down to Mrs McCormick the school nurse, tell her I wasn’t feeling well, and have her call my Meme. She and Meme knew each other from way back in the day. Meme would arrive in her ridiculously large Pacer and take me home to a day of resting on the couch.
And watching tv.
And being waited on.
And eating mac n cheese. Meme always made me mac n cheese when I was sick and to this day, I think it’s a Pavlovian response, but I always crave mac n cheese, the nasty boxed kind, when I’m feeling under the weather.
Sick days are not nearly as fun any more. Now, Dave takes care of me and doesn’t make the mac n cheese in the right order so it’s consistency is off and there are Finnegans shouting, Tates that need nursing, dogs that need let out, and phones that are ringing.
Bronchitis can suck it.
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