When my kids are sick, my first indication they’re feeling better is that they turn into little turds. I can’t blame them – they are a monster of my own creation. When they’re not feeling well my motherly instinct kicks in and nothing else matters but getting them well. Everything stops – my world revolves around them.
“You want more saltines? Bigger blanket? Smaller blanket? Want me to turn the channel? Rub your back? Is your broth the perfect degree of tempid? Would you be more comfortable throwing up outside, next to the garden hose?”
For the most part they just lay there pale and glassy eyed, my offers to cater to their every whim go unheard because they feel like death’s ass. But, inevitably, they’ll feel better and I hear the sweet words of wellness, “MOM! MORE JUICE! AND NOT THE KIND WITH THOSE LITTLE THINGIES THIS TIME, GOT IT?”
This is my cue to throw back the covers and hustle them out the back door to ‘air out’, as my Mom says.
Unfortunately, the rotten apples don’t fall far from the tree.
“MINT! I told you like five times I want the MINT FLOSS!” I hollered to Nick from the couch, tossing the bullshit floss to the floor. “We’ve known each other for like, ten years, and I’ve always used the exact same floss. It’s in a little silver package and it says ‘COOL MINT’.”
We made eye contact, and I immediately knew what was coming next.
“But I’m only half way through season two of House of Cards!” I protested as he pushed me out back, throwing my car keys into the yard and locking the door behind me.
So here I go, two weeks out of surgery. Every day consistently better than yesterday, if only by a hair. Limping, shuffling, hobbling, slowly but surely dusting myself off and airing out; re-integrating into the land of the living.
It’s time. Target missed me.