A Tale As Old As Time: When moms get sick
Have a seat, ladies. I have a tale to share. You have kids hanging on your legs? It's fine. If you have PBS Kids at your disposal, I've got the Rose`. This shouldn't take too long.
Many moons ago, long before there was Facebook or Instagram to make it an officially documented story, there lived a young mother. This mother was one of our early ancestors. Her dwelling was a cave, carved into the side of a mountain. The cave-mother kept a tidy home, fed her two young cave-dwellers the choicest cuts of woolly mammoth, and protected the abode while cave-father was away on business. (He was a big-wig on the scene of nut and berry trading. Extremely important guy.) Cave-life was good. But one morning, cave-mom could not gather the energy to lift her head from her rock pillow. The sun had risen and her sweet little neanderthals were hungry. They climbed on her and chased each other, merrily, with their clubs. Cave-mom's throat was on fire. Her head pounded and her stomach threatened to return the mastodon dinner from the night before. Cave-husband had been asked to speak at a Poison Berry Awareness conference in the next territory over. He wouldn't return until the full moon. Cave-mother was alone and ill with their two cave-babies.
As the sun moved through the sky, cave-mom felt increasingly worse. The cave-kids were too young to cook themselves food over the fire and were left to angrily gnaw roots they found at the back of the pantry. Their shrieks and the echo of clubs against the cave walls were torture to cave-mother's brain. She craved silence to rest. She wished a cave-neighbor would come to call and make her a vat of pond water soup. This illness had left her totally unable to care for her cave-family and desperate for a little R&R.
The fire was dimming, as cave-mother hadn't made her daily run to collect firewood. She had not left her bed of leaves and kept her saber-tooth fur pulled over her head. Little fingers tried desperately to pry the fur away and, with eyes closed tight, she begged her cave-children to let her be. The cave-kids were bored. They'd had their fill of cave drawings. They'd made bone jewelry. They'd even played with the fire while cave-mom drifted in and out of sleep. The cave walls were beginning to close in and the situation was out of control. Suddenly, a flash of light burst throughout the cave. The cave-kids fell into a stunned silence and cave-mom slowly lowered her fur. Standing in the middle of their home was a cave-witch. During her own childhood, cave-mother's grandmother had told her tales of cave-witches. The stories left goosebumps on the young cave-girl's arms, but she'd never fully believed them. And, yet, here stood a real cave-witch, in her home. Cave-mom quickly put her hand to her forehead. It was hot. What she hallucinating? In a warbling screech, the cave-witch began to speak.
"Young cave-mother, I know of your illness. I know your cave-man is away and that you have been left here with these cave-brats. I come to offer you rest. I see you are desperate for sleep and a little peace and quiet. The price? Well nothing is free, sweetums. Just your soul, my dear. Such a simple exchange. Your soul for the ability to sleep. Your children will not need anything from you until you are well. Not a peep will you hear until you wake up refreshed and energized. I'll even throw in a box or two of frozen velociraptor nuggets for the cave-tykes. What do you say, my love? Do we have a deal?"
With a cave-mom already at her wits end, you can imagine how the deal went down. She was so very sick and so incredibly tired. Even with the nagging feeling that this decision was bigger than herself, she signed her name in leftover mastodon blood on the cave wall. The cave-witch let out a satisfied cackle and with another bright flash, the cave was dark and silent. Cave-mom wasted no time in arranging her rock pillow and drifted off into a deep slumber. Never had her cave been so peaceful. She slept the best sleep of her cave-life, never knowing that she was dooming the history of mothers after her. The ill cave-woman, who had sold her soul for a day or two of rest, had unknowingly cursed all mothers after her. Never would we know comfort during illness. Instead of silence during times of sickness, we would hear "Mom, mom, mama, mama, mom. MOM. MOM." Unlike cave-idiot's ability to sleep as long as her tired body required, a millennia's worth of sick mothers would still be required to be at school pick-up and drop-offs. These wretched souls would be forced to wipe bottoms and open bags of Pirate's Booty, while fighting the chills of fever. Mothers with hoarse voices would break up sibling fights over who got the blue bowl, all while physically aching for a soft bed.
There you have it, girlfriend. No happy ending to this story, just the truth behind why sick moms get the short end of the stick. It's a tragedy. I just want to reach back in time and give cave-mom a cold, mean slap, don't you? She really ruined it for the rest of us.
Many moons ago, long before there was Facebook or Instagram to make it an officially documented story, there lived a young mother. This mother was one of our early ancestors. Her dwelling was a cave, carved into the side of a mountain. The cave-mother kept a tidy home, fed her two young cave-dwellers the choicest cuts of woolly mammoth, and protected the abode while cave-father was away on business. (He was a big-wig on the scene of nut and berry trading. Extremely important guy.) Cave-life was good. But one morning, cave-mom could not gather the energy to lift her head from her rock pillow. The sun had risen and her sweet little neanderthals were hungry. They climbed on her and chased each other, merrily, with their clubs. Cave-mom's throat was on fire. Her head pounded and her stomach threatened to return the mastodon dinner from the night before. Cave-husband had been asked to speak at a Poison Berry Awareness conference in the next territory over. He wouldn't return until the full moon. Cave-mother was alone and ill with their two cave-babies.
The fire was dimming, as cave-mother hadn't made her daily run to collect firewood. She had not left her bed of leaves and kept her saber-tooth fur pulled over her head. Little fingers tried desperately to pry the fur away and, with eyes closed tight, she begged her cave-children to let her be. The cave-kids were bored. They'd had their fill of cave drawings. They'd made bone jewelry. They'd even played with the fire while cave-mom drifted in and out of sleep. The cave walls were beginning to close in and the situation was out of control. Suddenly, a flash of light burst throughout the cave. The cave-kids fell into a stunned silence and cave-mom slowly lowered her fur. Standing in the middle of their home was a cave-witch. During her own childhood, cave-mother's grandmother had told her tales of cave-witches. The stories left goosebumps on the young cave-girl's arms, but she'd never fully believed them. And, yet, here stood a real cave-witch, in her home. Cave-mom quickly put her hand to her forehead. It was hot. What she hallucinating? In a warbling screech, the cave-witch began to speak.
"Young cave-mother, I know of your illness. I know your cave-man is away and that you have been left here with these cave-brats. I come to offer you rest. I see you are desperate for sleep and a little peace and quiet. The price? Well nothing is free, sweetums. Just your soul, my dear. Such a simple exchange. Your soul for the ability to sleep. Your children will not need anything from you until you are well. Not a peep will you hear until you wake up refreshed and energized. I'll even throw in a box or two of frozen velociraptor nuggets for the cave-tykes. What do you say, my love? Do we have a deal?"
With a cave-mom already at her wits end, you can imagine how the deal went down. She was so very sick and so incredibly tired. Even with the nagging feeling that this decision was bigger than herself, she signed her name in leftover mastodon blood on the cave wall. The cave-witch let out a satisfied cackle and with another bright flash, the cave was dark and silent. Cave-mom wasted no time in arranging her rock pillow and drifted off into a deep slumber. Never had her cave been so peaceful. She slept the best sleep of her cave-life, never knowing that she was dooming the history of mothers after her. The ill cave-woman, who had sold her soul for a day or two of rest, had unknowingly cursed all mothers after her. Never would we know comfort during illness. Instead of silence during times of sickness, we would hear "Mom, mom, mama, mama, mom. MOM. MOM." Unlike cave-idiot's ability to sleep as long as her tired body required, a millennia's worth of sick mothers would still be required to be at school pick-up and drop-offs. These wretched souls would be forced to wipe bottoms and open bags of Pirate's Booty, while fighting the chills of fever. Mothers with hoarse voices would break up sibling fights over who got the blue bowl, all while physically aching for a soft bed.
There you have it, girlfriend. No happy ending to this story, just the truth behind why sick moms get the short end of the stick. It's a tragedy. I just want to reach back in time and give cave-mom a cold, mean slap, don't you? She really ruined it for the rest of us.
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