• J Mess


They say moms don’t get sick days, but when I got taken down for the count with a 24 hour stomach bug, it was “put me in coach” time for my husband.

Let’s be clear. Taken down for the count was putting it mildly, I was not in good shape. I literally thought it might be the end after I threw up every half hour from 3am until 9am. Like my body might just turn itself inside out, throw up itself and I’d disappear. It hit me harder because I never get sick. I was one of the lucky ones. I barely had any morning sickness during my pregnancy, so I literally cannot recall the last time I was that sick. Maybe the time I ate bad sushi and then rode the NYC bus uptown for 70 blocks while sitting in the middle part that swivels. Not a good idea, trust me. So, here I was thinking I was invincible and then I went and had a kid. I’ve been sick more times in the last 11 months than I have in the last 11 years.

Being sick with a baby is a whole other level of sick. I can’t possibly take care of another human when I can’t remove my head from the toilet bowl. But this is the new reality. The baby is going to get sick, quite often, and apparently so will I. I’m always amused by the laissez faire attitude people have when others recount an awful sickness. “It’s really common,” or “it’s going around.” That’s it? Like it’s just inevitable that everyone will get sick? What can you do besides just sit and wait by the toilet? Instead why can’t anyone say “holy crap, don’t touch anything ever again and Purell your skin off unless you want to puke your insides up for 12 hours straight” with maybe a little bit more urgency and a “may the odds be ever in your favor.”

And your husband’s.

For all the times us women have complained, let’s face it we all do, that we bear the brunt of child rearing, when he needed to step up, my husband eagerly volunteered as tribute. My parents were in the car and ready to bring reinforcements in case I needed to go to the hospital, but Josh was insistent that he could handle everything and I have to give him credit, everyone survived. We set the bar low. Not because I didn't think he could do it, but because, well, it's tough out there on your own. And the day went mostly as you’d expect if you were actually in The Hunger Games.

The whole thing is a little hazy for me because I was in and out of blissful sleep, but I woke up once and saw my son tearing apart his baby jail while climbing all over my husband, who obviously had to also be in there with him. I nodded off, woke up again and he was throwing food out of his high chair all over the floor. Intentionally rolled over, then woke up and found the baby playing alone on the floor and my husband laying on the couch next to me with his eyes closing. Wait, hold up. You gave up already? It’s only been a couple hours! You can’t also fall asleep dude, you’re in charge here! He looked at me and said “I’m so tired.” Oh yea? Really? This did not bode well for Daddy Day Care part 2 while I was away at a bachelorette party for one night over the weekend. This is the photo I got... Happy Hunger Games…

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