The Five Stages of Grief: When the kids get sick
It has been a good run, kids. The summer was kind to us. Being outside and doused in chlorine basically acted as a constant, full body hand-sanitizer. No sniffles, no random eye goop. That right there was the sweet life, folks. And now it's gone, tossed to the wind with our enviable tans and natural sun highlights. Here comes the sick season and it's moving with a vengeance. It comes for our families and seeks to bring parents everywhere to their knees. I give you The Five Stages of Grief...when the kids get sick.
Stage 1- Denial
Nope. Sorry, my friend. Looks like all that vomit on my dining room floor is thanks to a bad batch of mac and cheese. Can you believe it? The experts are right. Organic is the way to go. My mistake. You just go shower all of that off of you and I'll head to Costco right now to get you a friendlier mac and cheese. Truly, my mistake. No, you're definitely not sick. That would mean missing school. And if you miss school, then I miss my Netflix... I mean cleaning and prayer time. Yes, all I do is clean and pray while you're away from me, sweet angel. I assure you, you are still the picture of health and shall rise like the Phoenix to get outside on your scooter and leave me be. I have faith in you!
Stage 2- Anger
You've got to be joking. There is some parent out there who let their nasty, infected child come to school and spread their nasty, infected germs to my tribe! Oh no. I am fully prepared to give some sideways eyes at school drop-off when we're able to return in thirty-six to forty-eight hours. This is some bull. Let's go pick up your antibiotics at the pharmacy. Don't touch anything! Don't sit by that kid with the snot. Yes, we'll go home soon. I guess you'll be taking over Netflix the next few days. Some people have all the luck...
Stage 3- Bargaining
Hey there, God. It's yours truly. I know, I feel bad about that prayer joke, too. Not cool. I need to get myself right with the jokes, huh? How about this? If you make those antibiotics have some kind of mega-fast healing effect and get my kid back to school, I really will start cleaning the house. And I will start a full-fledged prayer circle. I know you think I could stand to lose a little of my Netflix time. And I agree! I get it! No one needs to binge-watch "Breaking Bad" for a third time. Just help a girl out, please.
Stage 4- Depression
I've washed so many sets of sheets. I Clorox all the surfaces, but they keep TOUCHING ALL THE SURFACES. WHY? At this rate, I'm prepared to burn this mother to the ground and call it a day. What's the point? We might as well head underground as mole-people where the germs can't find us. I'm just so tired. The illness has won and I'll never be among well people again. Everywhere I look is snot. A sea of snot. I am drowning in mucus. And it's not even my own.
Stage 5- Acceptance
This is my new role. I shall play Mother Teresa to the ailing in my household. With bleach by my side, I will be a guiding light to the downtrodden and snotty. From the months of October through May, I live to serve. Summer will wipe my mental slate clean and only then will I be free of the thermometers, the doctor visits, and the constant demand for Gatorade (we all know they just like the taste). I will be free from stops by the pharmacy and demands from my oily friends to get on board. The summer, though slow in advancement, will save me again. I need only hold on...to my wineglass.
Stage 1- Denial
Nope. Sorry, my friend. Looks like all that vomit on my dining room floor is thanks to a bad batch of mac and cheese. Can you believe it? The experts are right. Organic is the way to go. My mistake. You just go shower all of that off of you and I'll head to Costco right now to get you a friendlier mac and cheese. Truly, my mistake. No, you're definitely not sick. That would mean missing school. And if you miss school, then I miss my Netflix... I mean cleaning and prayer time. Yes, all I do is clean and pray while you're away from me, sweet angel. I assure you, you are still the picture of health and shall rise like the Phoenix to get outside on your scooter and leave me be. I have faith in you!
Stage 2- Anger
You've got to be joking. There is some parent out there who let their nasty, infected child come to school and spread their nasty, infected germs to my tribe! Oh no. I am fully prepared to give some sideways eyes at school drop-off when we're able to return in thirty-six to forty-eight hours. This is some bull. Let's go pick up your antibiotics at the pharmacy. Don't touch anything! Don't sit by that kid with the snot. Yes, we'll go home soon. I guess you'll be taking over Netflix the next few days. Some people have all the luck...
Stage 3- Bargaining
Hey there, God. It's yours truly. I know, I feel bad about that prayer joke, too. Not cool. I need to get myself right with the jokes, huh? How about this? If you make those antibiotics have some kind of mega-fast healing effect and get my kid back to school, I really will start cleaning the house. And I will start a full-fledged prayer circle. I know you think I could stand to lose a little of my Netflix time. And I agree! I get it! No one needs to binge-watch "Breaking Bad" for a third time. Just help a girl out, please.
Stage 4- Depression
I've washed so many sets of sheets. I Clorox all the surfaces, but they keep TOUCHING ALL THE SURFACES. WHY? At this rate, I'm prepared to burn this mother to the ground and call it a day. What's the point? We might as well head underground as mole-people where the germs can't find us. I'm just so tired. The illness has won and I'll never be among well people again. Everywhere I look is snot. A sea of snot. I am drowning in mucus. And it's not even my own.
Stage 5- Acceptance
This is my new role. I shall play Mother Teresa to the ailing in my household. With bleach by my side, I will be a guiding light to the downtrodden and snotty. From the months of October through May, I live to serve. Summer will wipe my mental slate clean and only then will I be free of the thermometers, the doctor visits, and the constant demand for Gatorade (we all know they just like the taste). I will be free from stops by the pharmacy and demands from my oily friends to get on board. The summer, though slow in advancement, will save me again. I need only hold on...to my wineglass.
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