Last week, a few bugs hit our household. We’ve all been down with something or other for the last eight days. Our world usually follows a pattern—Daddy gets the sickest, Mama gets the least, and the kids all get something in between. It was going like this for the first several days, then Mama Got Sick.
This is what I looked like by the end of Day 3. I had lost 10 pounds, which sounds great but not really a good look on me. Scrawny and weak, nauseous and green, hair unkempt, frizzy and gray-streaked, wrinkles and zits (genetics gave me a great metabolism but lousy skin), I crawled between bed and couch and bathroom.
Actually, this is what I really looked like, at least to my children. (That’s a target, not a graphic picture of my insides.)
Here’s my parenting philosophy addendum: I am my kids’ target.
I am a busy, active mom. I flit here and there and do this project and clean that mess and take that out and put this away. Not intentionally, I have become a perpetual moving target. When I stop moving—for three days—I am a sitting duck and my children can’t help themselves. They pile on, elbows in my gut, knees pinning my hair, wanting to read, to play, to talk, to sing, to beg a video (or five). Or to take their half out of the middle of my pillow, wiping yellow snot on my cheek or bedding. Finally, they had a mama who they could catch at any time with no great effort on their part.
I could either feel guilty about this (but why bother? I’m a good mom and they get plenty of attention) or realize that I need to get my strength back so I can start running from them again! I think we all better for the exercise!