February 16, 2005

all I want is the flu

Wade is sick. Still. I mean REALLY sick, not just his usual hypochondriacal “I think I may be getting a touch of a cold, so I will need to sleep late and take a big ol’ nap while you continue to do everything for the boys” (OK, he’s not THAT bad, but it does feel that way sometimes). This time, he’s really really REALLY sick–he came home on Monday night with a fever of 102 and went straight to bed. Yesterday he went to the doctor, who gave him a cortisone shot (ouch!) for the bronchial infection, a Z-Pack (in addition to the Cipro he’s already taking), and sent him for bloodwork, which he wants repeated next week (I don’t know what that means–is it good or bad?).

Anyway, he went to work today (praise jesus!) after being home on Tuesday AND three days last week, which was a nightmare for all of us–the kids kept trying to play with him, because instead of staying in bed, where a sick person BELONGS, he kept coming out into the playroom to tell me how sorry he was that he just didn’t feel well enough to help me. Then when I would pack the kids up to go out (because no one could come play at our house, on account of the sickness) he would say, no, no, you don’t have to leave, in this sad little voice. And all I could think was, you had better REALLY be sick, buddy. And of course, he was.

It’s been killing him to miss work, since he just started this job a month ago and isn’t sure he has any paid leave accrued yet (not to mention NOT wanting people to think he’s a slacker right off), but at least he was ABLE to stay home and rest. Which brings me to Why I Hate My Job: no sick leave.*

Wade said to me the other night, “I hope you aren’t getting what I have. Do you think you’re getting it?”

“Nope,” I said. “I can’t get sick.”

“Seriously,” he said, “do you think you are getting sick?”

I said again, “I can’t get sick.”

He started to ask me again, but I think he realized that I was a: annoyed and b: serious. I can’t get sick. Oh, sure, the germies find me–what with Charlie putting his fingers in my mouth and wiping his nose on my hands, and Henry bringing me every Kleenex he uses to hold for him–and sometimes they take up residence in my body and leave me feeling like I’ve been dragged behind a very very large truck. But this does not change my day in any way. I still have to get up, shuttle the kids around, feed them, break up the fights, read the same story 400 times . . . you know the drill. Twice in the nearly five years since Henry was born have I had a REAL sick day, the kind where you never even get out of bed and someone else takes care of all the things that need to be done–and both times I had stomach flu. Of course, those aren’t the only times I’ve been sick–once, when Henry was a toddler, I called Wade at work and said, “Can you please PLEASE come home early before I die on the carpet and Henry has to fill his own sippy cup with milk???” So he came home fifteen minutes early (whoo hoo) and promptly fell asleep in a chair, leaving me to deal with the boy AND get dinner. But we’ve tried to move past that.

*No, I don’t actually HATE this job, but let’s face it, the benefits package sucks. No sick days, and I take the kids with me on virtually every vacation (since June 2000 I have been away from my kids less than a total of two weeks. Which means that ALL the other weeks–and days and hours and minutes–I HAVE BEEN WITH THEM).

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One Response to “all I want is the flu”

1. March 9th, 2007 at 6:45 pm, standing still Says:

   Mother = no sick days, no vacation, no 401k, no social security. And they say it’s the most valuable job in the world? Yea, so pay me.

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