I Want My Mom

Hand. Forehead. STAT.

This week I had the stomach flu. It hit as a wave of nausea while my students were at music, but I managed to hold on for the rest of the day. Then I curled up on the tiny couch in my classroom until Billy was done with baseball. Baseball was out late so I was sitting in my car, in the rain, in the high school parking lot, desperately hoping I could hang on until I was home. By some miracle I did, and when I arrived home I stumbled up to my room — Dan had already moved his things down to the couch — and spent the evening alone, fairly sure I wanted to die.

This isn’t how it would have gone down a few years ago. Well, more than a few. Though I was never one of the unfortunate ones who threw up during school hours, I know one of my parents would have come to pick me up. I wouldn’t have felt like I had to power through the day. I would not have tried to come back to work on the third day, and had my body let me know that it was a Big Mistake. HUGE.

My stomach viruses always seemed to hit in the middle of the night (or maybe it happened one time and it ended up a core memory). I’d wake up screaming for my parents, and they would come downstairs and rescue me. They’d clean me up, change my sheets, put a towel over my pillow — in case it happened again — and put The Pan by my bed.

I don’t know why we threw up in a cake pan. In my house now, we put a garbage can by the kids’ bedside. On the boat, we used an ice cream bucket. (Well, the bucket was more for peeing, but it came in handy for me on one seasick occasion.) But my parents always brought The Pan, and it was comforting. It was almost as comforting as The Hand on the Forehead.

Some of you know. You’re nodding your head. You recognize the feeling of being sick and headachey and too hot and too cold and so miserable and then someone who cares about you puts their hand on your forehead and you close your eyes and it’s ok for a moment.

To this day, my mom thinks she wasn’t very good when we were sick. She thinks she wasn’t comforting enough and that she was impatient. That isn’t what I remember. I remember feeling better when she came to check on me. I remember knowing that her frown was worry for me. I remember her hand on my forehead, and on my cheeks. Those are the sensations I long for when curled up like a shrimp in my grown-up, king-sized bed.

It isn’t that I’m not cared for. Dan is wonderful about checking on me (from a safe distance) and going to the store for Gatorade and Jello. Both of my kids understand the power of The Hand on the Forehead, and are generous with it. If my teammates and/or principal would have known I was feeling bad that first day, I would have been encouraged to go home.

The crux of the issue is this: I had to decide whether or not I was ready for work. I had to make all the plans for a guest teacher (though in my state of mind I’m not sure how solid they were!). I had to make sure that Billy could get to school and home again. I had to duck out of meetings and rehearsals and responsibilities. It had been complex and stressful and I just want to be sick and for my mommy to take care of me.

I saw a quote the other day that said something like, “It must be my age that fools people into thinking I’m an adult,” and can I tell you, I felt that in my soul.

Thanks for reading.

Love, Susie