Friday, January 23, 2009

Choking on My Phlegm: A Whiny Rant About the Injustice of Motherhood

I woke up this morning (at approximately 2:10 a.m. by my husband groping me, but that's another story) with that heavy, rattly feeling in my chest and a tickle in my throat that made tears well up in my eyes. I still had sex with my husband, cause I am an awesome wife like that, but then quickly realized after the randy act that I was coming down with something.


Doesn't the universe realize that moms just do NOT have the time to get sick? That the rollercoaster that is our life does not slow down nor come to a complete stop EVER, not even when we are hacking up a lung and having fever dreams right out of Trainspotting?

The alarm went off at 7 a.m., just like it always does, but my head inexplicably felt like it weighed 50 pounds (as opposed to the typical 30 that it usually feels like at 7 a.m. on a weekday). I dreaded climbing out of the safe, warm haven of my sheets and blankets and the memory foam mattress topper that hugs me and makes me feel like I am sleeping in my very own cocoon. I sniffed and realized that the oxygen did not travel through my nostrils like it should and I groaned. I was definitely getting sick. How I longed for the days when I could roll over, pick up the phone, call in sick and go back to sleep for the rest of the morning. But there is no calling in sick for motherhood, a real flaw in the job description if you ask me. When a dad is sick, the mom gets up quietly and closes the door to the bedroom, shushing the children so that Daddy can get some rest because he is not feeling well. When a mom is sick, it's just another day.

So I get up. I throw my greasy, unwashed hair into a ponytail and attempt to wipe the sleep from my eyes. I blow about 2 pounds of snot from my nose and splash cold water on my hot, flushed face. And it's on with the lunch-making, breakfast preparing, bed changing (from the 2-year-old who wet the bed the night before), and the coffee brewing. The fighting with the 8-year-old to brush his teeth is that much more wearing on the old patience, and the 2-year-old's indecision on what to eat for breakfast is exhausting and makes the head pound harder in the ears.

But nobody notices. Nope, nobody asks "Mom, are you feeling OK?" "Do you need to sit down?" "Can I get you anything?"

No, nobody notices at all. It is just another day.

Which means I guess I have done my job well.

I think it is time for a raise.