Mooooommmm

I actually can look back fondly at the days of being sick as a child. I got to sit in bed all day in warm pajamas that I can still remember feeling so soft on my skin. I would be covered in heavy blankets, watching cartoons in my parents' big bed with their big TV. My mom would make the best-tasting chicken soup with shredded pieces of chicken and delicious vegetables and soothing broth. But that was just the beginning. We had Jell-O and ice chips, juices of all kinds, toast which had the most lovely scratching sensation on your itchy throat. My dad would make this whiskey, honey, and lemon conncoction that soothed the throat and calmed a cough. There was a box of tissues at my bedside and I didn't even have to pick up after them. I didn't have to worry about what medicine to take or when. Everything was done for me. All I had to do was relax and feel better.

And isn't that all we want when we're sick? Someone to take care of us? And didn't we always seem to get better so much faster? Missing more than two days of school almost never happened. Here I am on day five of pure sickness hell and there's no sign of "better" in sight. And with Mike and I both sick at the same time, there is no one to take care of us. No delicious, healing chicken soup. Infact, for about a week we have experiemented with different soup-in-a-bag or "just add water" combinations. Unfortunately there is just no substitute for Mom's. Dad's whiskey-honey-lemon mixture has come out tasting like a gooey cocktail and there is no Jell-O. Instead of finding mom at the kitchen table when you muster the strength to get up, there is a mountain of dirty soup bowls and spoons, coffee cups, and drink glasses the likes of which you have never seen. The pile of laundry is rivaled only by the pile of snot rags which have spilled off of the nightstand and onto the floor and why two grown adults can not remember to keep medicines on a strict schedule is beyond me. Laying in bed watching cartoons may seem okay at first, but before you know it you're staring at the ceiling wishing you could just fall asleep. The temperature is never right. The heavy blankets are suffocating you and your pajamas are covered in dog hair. You can't really taste anything but you're certain that it doesn't taste good anyway and a small voice in the back of your brain whines out into the night: "Mooooooommmmm" in the "I'm gonna throw up" tone that would cause her to come running. What I wouldn't give for some of that chicken soup right now...