Despite access to hundreds of parenting books and cautionary tales from veteran parents, nothing really prepares you for caring for your ill child like actually caring for your ill child.
Katie has been fighting upper respiratory symptoms for a month, all while managing daily life pretty well. Routine life fell apart last weekend, though: fevers, coughing fits, ear pain, achiness, restless sleep and, just to keep things interesting, a middle-of-the-night vomiting episode.
Katie has since returned to school, strengthened by antibiotics, decongestants and oral steroids. I, the healthy one, am still recovering.
My children are independent for their ages (by today’s standards, at least). They can make their own sandwiches, clean a room, take out the trash, get ready for bed, rent a pay-per-view movie.
I’ve been encouraging them to take on more responsibilities out of necessity for my own workload and for their self-confidence. But when they’re ill, I swoop in and take back over.
So while Katie was snuggling under blankets and allowing her body to rest, I was doing what moms do. Pouring juice, fluffing pillows, administering medicine, checking her temperature, rubbing her back, holding her hand.
In our life before my husband’s cancer and death, we shared just about all the parenting tasks. If I was home all day with an ill child, I at least knew that Steve would be home in the evening, and I’d get a chance to run an errand or go for a run outside or just run away to our bedroom.
Being a single parent with a sick child is much different. There’s no reliable second shift. No taking turns to help with middle-of-the-night tasks. No one to turn to and say: “This child is pumped full of steroids and Sudafed and is trying my patience. Please let me escape.”
I’m not totally alone; plenty of folks are available to help. One friend delivered medicine and treats the afternoon that Katie’s fever was at its peak and she was still smarting from the antibiotic shot in her leg. Another friend delivered groceries and flowers on Mother’s Day and let me escape to the pharmacy. We couldn’t go out for a fancy Mother’s Day dinner, so family brought dinner to us.
Still, at the end of the day, there’s just one adult to tuck in, clean up and sleep with one ear open for possible trouble. Which is one reason why there’s a lot of television during the day.
All of my rules and theories about a maximum 30 minutes of screen time a day disappear with a sick child. A fever or stomach virus earns you a front-row seat to all the television you can watch. It gives the patient some necessary downtime and possibly the parent some necessary naptime.
This weekend included multiple viewings of a cheesy Lego movie and a really awful animated movie about wolves and multiple episodes of The Electric Company (21st-century version) and Bubble Guppies. And apparently at least one viewing of a commercial for Pajama Jeans.
Monday afternoon, I was in the kitchen, rinsing drops of medicine from little plastic shot glasses when Katie’s raspy voice called out.
“Can I have Pajama Jeans? Please! They’re jeans but as comfy as PJs!”
She described how there are sizes for everyone. How they’re not very expensive. How you can take a nap in them but they still look good.
I was functioning on very little sleep over a 72-hour period. But I still had the presence of mind to say no. To turn off the television. And to add a note to my mental how-to-care-for-Katie book: Don’t teach her how to dial 800 numbers or how to use my credit card.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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