My six-year-old Carson got stomach sick at school today. On a field trip at Woodward Park. While I was helping a friend by babysitting her little boy, 25 minutes away in Broken Arrow. And hubs was out of town.
But that’s not the story here.
When I finally got Carson home, after much help from family and friends (who moved their feet just in time), I settled him on the sofa where he appeared to pass out. But his breathing was normal and deep so I knew he was sleeping. I put a blanket over him and spread a towel on the floor in front of him. I positioned a trash can next to the sofa and I stroked his forehead, trying to detect any sign of a fever. Then I stroked it some more just because I felt so dang sorry for him.
Then I realized that when my boys get sick, I actually feel like a pretty good parent.
It always takes me back to when I was a little girl, and when I was sick I felt like I suddenly ruled the world in my house of many siblings. Only I didn’t enjoy ruling because I was…well…sick.
But my mom, she’d sit with me and bring me a cool cloth for my forehead and make me a tray of yummy bland food. And I never really felt that bad when she was there with me.
So when my boys get sick, I find myself doing and saying the same kinds of things to them. I want them to feel safe and not anxious and comfortable and loved. And yes, I’m sad they feel bad, but as a little girl I remember thinking, hey, this being sick isn’t the worst thing in the world if I’m gonna get all this lovin’!
And their sickness, it seems to bring out the softer mom in me. And the protective mom. And the smart mom because I can usually figure out what to do for them.
I NEVER wish my kids to be sick. And when they are, I wish it like heck to be gone.
But for me, as a mom, it also reinforces to me that I’m getting through some parts of parenthood in okay fashion.
And it’s those areas I hope my kids remember the most vividly.