One thing that never occurred to me before I had children was that when I was sick, it didn't matter anymore. There is nobody to bring you a bowl of soup or Gatorade. Except maybe your husband if the stars align. I remember the days pre-children. I would drift in and out of a drug (prescription) induced coma and slowly repair myself with the help of E! and celebrity gossip magazines. Throw in a hot shower and comfy pajamas and I was on the road to wellville.
Not so much the case anymore. Now the minute my head hits the pillow, the baby is screaming because they are teething or wet or hot or cold. Or maybe just for the sake of screaming. It is hard to tell. And as desperately as you want to stay home from work, the thought of staying home with your child sounds like...a whole lot of work. So you power through the pain. You lift yourself out of bed. You look at your expired bottle of Tylenol and wonder if Children's Motrin in vast quantities will do the trick. You drop your child off at daycare and struggle with the guilt of being a working mom. You deal with coworkers who tell you the obvious: "You don't look good." Yes, thank you. I realize that I look pitiful and that not even the help of caffeine and globbed on hookers makeup can take the parlor of death off of me.
I now understand why looking back on pictures of my mom when she was my age that she looked so worn out by the world. Perhaps it is because as moms, we give up the right to peace, quiet and rest the second our pee sticks read positive. But whose complaining? We can sleep when we are dead.
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