It finally happened – this thing I’d been dreading since becoming a mother. It didn’t ask me first. There was no pleasant tea and biscuit-riddled discussion circle. It came and took me with the force of 1,000 body snatchers. It was more ghastly than watching John Basedow tongue-kiss Rosie O’Donnell at a People for the Ethical Treatment of Pond Scum meeting, more beastly and efficient than a rogue lop-eared Romulan with an axe to grind and a faltering emotional filter. It was, and ever-so-slightly-still-is, the stomach flu.
But at least it’s over. Almost. For years now I’ve been heeding warnings from my friends with small children. Pasty-faced and earnest, boxes of Dayquil clutched to their breasts with trembling, near-licentious passion, they graciously offer sentiments like, “Dooon’t geeet *cough* siiiick!”
“It’s not worth it,” one said.
“An impossibility,” countered another, shaking her head a little too fast for a little too long.
“Don’t let it happen,” croaked a third, clutching my shirt and breathing the words into my face, spattling germ-ridden particles into my nose and mouth before loosening her grip to hug herself, rocking slightly as her eyes glazed over like those of a dead shark.
I had been living in fear for far too long. Alas, no longer! The barbarian came and attacked; it hit me over the head with a club of agony and pain and rendered me virtually incapable of caring for my children for a small time, one of my worst fears, forcing the issue and making it necessary for me to ask for… oh God I can’t even say it, okay I’ll say it, to ask for help.
Firstly, please know that I realize how lucky I am to only have contracted this sickness when so many more horrific and impossible ones exist, and that I have people to turn to for help. So many single and military moms out there don’t have any recourse, and must suffer through the completely debilitating initial phase of the stomach flu in the fetal position while their children cry next to them, somehow mustering the strength to creep finger-over-finger into the kitchen and get their little ones the oral nourishment they require.
I have my own mother, who is suffering from a lingering sickness herself, renewed this morning, forcing her to call me for jello and ice chips, and most likely meaning that we will have to put off our move, which frustrates me to no end as I’m desperate to get this show on the road and it seems beyond reason that the universe is trying to pin us here indefinitely. (No, I don’t blame you, Mom. No, I don’t blame you, Mom. No, I don’t blame you, Mom. I am not an awful person who would blame her Mom for something she can not help. I’m not. I’m not.) Still, she was able to come over at just the right time and do what she could for part of the day, make the jello and pudding we would all feast upon, and put the kids to sleep at bedtime. Thank you, Mom. It made all the difference in the world.
I have my husband Dennis, who was unable to leave work early in the morning due to a responsibility that could not be covered by another. I detected the strain in his voice when I asked, as he knew it was unobtainable, but so wanted to be here to help me. Bless him, he managed to leave at 11:30 and pick up some medicine for my mom and myself, along with organic lemon-lime soda. Then, upon being home for a mere couple of hours, he was promptly taken ill and proceeded to vomit like a mad cow well into the evening.
I have my stepson Brian, who may or may not be the culprit who brought the foul brute of a sickness into our home on Christmas, but suffers the guilt as though he’s sure of it, who was more than willing to assist, but had to work. He did come over yesterday, bless his big fat heart, to help with the kids while his father and I did our best to recover.
And, of course, there are my babies – Joe and Lily. Lily has been sick for days now, the poor thing, vomiting and uncomfy. It is so hard to watch such a small, beautiful thing in so much discomfort, and not be able to make it better for her. We tried baths, snuggling, and extended bouts of nursing. To be fair, I did the nursing, Dennis did the bathing. Just when it appeared as though she might be feeling better, my sweet angel would upchuck in her crib. This is a nasty, barbarous illness. If Lily is not fully herself today I am going to fashion a goat out of her pain and kick it in the ding ding. Then slap it.
So far, and I’m afraid to even talk about it lest I should awaken fate, Joe has remained his healthy, vigorously perky self.
Now I am in a position to pass the baton of warning to other new moms. Face it: You can’t get sick! Long gone are the days when you could convalesce in the comfort of your bed after being stricken by a bug, snoozing at will, watching “What’s Happening!” reruns, and perhaps even catching up on your reading. Not only will you not be allowed the sanctity of your recovery time, you will most likely be called to duty. Others in your family will probably be taken ill, if they are not ill already, and they will need you to muster whatever strength you can find to tend to them. And you will do it, no matter how ill, because love, my friends, is the most powerful force in the universe.
Time, love and ice chips will make it all better. Just don’t let it happen again! 
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