Let me be sick...please?

   

     When moms are sick, chidren treat them much like lions treat wounded gazelle in the jungle. They take full advantage.
     I had spent a full day doing things like not answering questions, watching a show that featured a bra that holds an entire bottle of wine and increases your cup size (The Wine Rack), and catching up on a soap opera I haven't really watched since college. In other words, I was allowed to be sick.
     However, within two hours of getting home, one child had eaten a large portion of my hidden Dove chocolate stash, while the other played video games before homework.
     I just reclined in the big, germ-infested chair not doing a whole lot about it.
     When they did join me, it wasn't to ask me how I felt or to ask me if I would like some hot tea (I know, we aren't British and I could be delusional from the illness and, no, I don't even like hot tea but stay with me here). I was lucky enough to witness a presentation of the status of every single one of my youngest child's teeth, how loose each one is, and even a special math problem involving his teeth. Then I got to listen to my 5-year-old's inquires about how old he has to be to own a real machete. He thought 59 sounded reasonable.
     Then I got to hear of his plans to come home from kindergarden and saw down some bad trees in our backyard.
     For. The. Love.
     When, oh, WHEN am I allowed to just be sick? I'm not nursing anyone. I don't have to watch crawlers on the stairs anymore, and no one is trying to stick a finger in an outlet. I would think by now I could just peacefully be sick. But once again, perhaps I am delusional.
     I should have known last week, when I was in the bathroom, and someone poked just a foot around the corner, making it talk like a mini-puppet show, that quiet time wasn't looking promising.
    After the tooth dissertation, my youngest could have won an Academy Award for acting out dehydration. He grabbed his throat, begging for water. Someone had to get him some water.
     So now I'm supposed to believe someone planning to hack down trees can't fix a glass of water? I just glanced up with a "No hablo ingles" look.
     It wasn't long before my husband came home from work - with groceries- THANK YOU, ED! But still, the children gathered around me like a wounded animal. Even the dog jumped into the chair with me and promptly passed gas.
     I finally dragged myself to the table for supper. Everyone seemed so lively and loud. My youngest sat there eating his chicken with a little saw and hammer by his plate (I guess gearing up for his big day), and the oldest began speaking in an Austrailian accent that he thought would sound great coming from our family German shorthaired pointer. I peered at my husband and said in my best pitiful voice, "Can't I just be sick?"
    My oldest child jumped in there for him.
    "No, we are not a normal family."
     There really wasn't anything I could add to that.
    After dinner, my husband brought in the mail because I was really hoping we got some Christmas cards or good catalogs.
     But even during his sweet gesture, he couldn't resist hiding a little plastic lizard amongst the catalogs.
    It didn't scare me though. In fact, I never saw it. It fell out and was obscured by my muffin top and my yoga pants.
    So the joke was on him...I think.