For the past 48 hours, Daddy Pig has been in bed, ill. This is longer than I had to recover after giving birth. All three times. Bitter? Me?
The other morning, Daddy Pig woke me at 5.30 AM to discuss his sore throat.
‘Could we talk about this in another hour or so?’ I said. ‘When I’m awake?’
We’re not those caring, nurturing couples. Who make each other Lemsips.
Just in case you wondered.
Man flu strikes.
Two hours later Daddy Pig was dying. Swollen glands. Sore throat. Headache. Dizzy. Nausea.
His symptoms mirrored the symptoms I had a month ago, exactly. FOR THREE EXCRUCIATING WEEKS.
Except, naturally, his were worse. And required immediate medical attention. Antibiotics. And complete bed rest.
Which is, of course, exactly how I recovered.
(HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.)
In sickness and in health?
And I am not ashamed to say that I’m jealous. Resentful. And a little bit peeved.
Because whenever Daddy Pig gets ill, he can take to his bed. Undisturbed. I, on the other hand, am expected to get on with it and am lucky to get 5 minutes to even puke in peace, without a child asking what I’m doing or where their socks are. There is never a minute to switch off and concentrate on being ill. NEVER.
If I do dare to try and get some respite, I’m interrupted every few minutes by a curious child or a daddy asking where something is.
Isn’t this what it’s like for all mums?
The joy of oblivion.
Yesterday at bedtime, Daddy Pig slept, as wars broke out in every corner of our home.
Godivy was in crisis after I gave her the wrong beaker, Beaver and I were trying to do her reading and The Boy with No Name was screaming because he’s growing another millimetre of tooth (must take after his dad).
Meanwhile. Daddy Pig slept.
And slept some more.
A bitter pill to swallow.
This morning, he is still ill.
And I am still peeved. And feeling the effects of solo parenting.
‘Does your throat feel like someone is stuffing a watermelon down it?’ I ask.
‘NO? WELL MY VAGINA DID WHEN I WAS PUSHING OUT OUR CHILDREN!’
After which I think I had a couple of pieces of toast before sticking a load of washing on.
NOT 48 HOURS IN BED.
Like I said, I’m not bitter.
I’m sorry (I’m not.)
And I’m (not) sorry for the lack of sympathy.
Because until us mums get equality in the sickness stakes and a minimum of 48 hours in bed for every illness we succumb to, no one else is going on bed rest, right?
When you have kids, you can be ill in your own time. Like, when the kids are asleep.
Or, better still, when they’ve left home.