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By Robin Dearing
Last week I wrote about having sick kids (by the way, one is much better but one still has that horrible elementary-school crud oozing out all over the place). What goes perfectly with sick kids? Sick parents. Bill and I seem to have gotten something, probably from one or both of the kids. Bill's been coughing so he's probably got the dreaded elementary-school crud. I'm feverish and ready to close my eyes and take a nap right now as I type this. I hate being sick. I've neither stoic nor adult about the matter. I'm indignant and crabby. I have no patience for not feeling well. It annoys me with its constant nagging headache and lethargy. Always reminding me that I don't feel well. The only thing that makes me feel better about the whole ordeal is sleep. And, of course, sleep is something of which I never get enough. I'm dreaming of leaving the office this evening and crawling into my glorious flannel sheets (yes, people, fall has officially arrived) and sleeping the evening away. But that will remain a fantasy. My kid has to be picked up, I have to eat some sort of dinner before I dash off to teach my evening class. But then, I can don my 'jams and rest my aching bones, but it won't be without the guilt of neglected mom duties. There needs to be some kind of "sick mom" service that comes and does all my mom chores when I'm sick. Margaret needs supervision when she pracitics her piano and there's the laundry (Bill will do the laundry but it's such a nuanced activity best left to the truly anal-retentive like myself) and the general tidying and straightening of the house. I think I can, however, continue with my role as household crab. But for now, I'll stay slumped at my desk, feeling sorry for my sick self.