I Need Better Benefits.....

Yes, I'm a stay at home mom. Yes, I enjoy it.

But, MAN!

I sure miss things like sick days and vacation time!

Take this weekend for example.

The whole family has been suffering for what feels like weeks. Gran included. We've had this horrible nose and chest illness that just grabs ahold of you like a terrier with a bone, locks its mucus dripping jaws, and does not let go of you.

I'm assuming that it's because of all the coughing and hacking, but both Jeff and I have managed to throw our backs out of whack to various degrees. His was first and was odd. It was his shoulder then it moved to his neck and then to his general back. Mine was more recent and just grabbed my entire back area. It's as if there is a giant boa constrictor wound around my torso and every now and then it squeezes and sends an electric current through various muscles groups making them contract and expand and cause me no end of pain.

I find it really difficult to find a position that gives me any sort of comfort level with the exception of my computer chair. (Even then, I have to be reclined in it, not sitting up.) In fact, I got up at about 3 am Friday morning and after stumbling downstairs to heat up my lovely lavendar scented, squishy thingy to put on my back, I ended up sleeping in my chair.

Fast forward to Sunday.

Jeff has suitably recovered and I'm in more pain that I had been in for the previous two days. After spending most of the day either taking care of people (I know, I should have let the man starve, but then I'd have to listen to him whine about it.) or sitting as still as possible on the couch trying to burn my muscles into submission, I decide that I'm going to try to lie down and get a little rest.

I manage to find a comfortable position in the bed, but somehow, my brain doesn't disconnect. I'm aware of everything that is happening in the house. Well, I can't really help it. I get a constant news cast from the two people that I happen to love most in the world.

I sense a presence next to the bed. It is small. I open one eye.

"Mummy, I want a snack." She pauses a moment, waiting to see if I respond. "Please?" She adds hopefully, remembering that I've been nagging her lately about her please and thank you's.

"Go tell your Daddy," I croak in my best Marlon Brando impersonation. "Tell him that you can have one pack of animal cookies, two packs of snacks (her favorite Dora fruit snacks that her Grammy sends her from America) and an orange in a bowl." I can feel pleasure radiate from what must be a smile that I can't see. "And some juice."

I make her this special little snack mix when she is feeling peckish and is having a bad day. She has been really good even though I've been an absolute grump and a half. She deserves a little treat. I hear her traipse downstairs and start telling her Dad what "Mummy said" and I kind of fog out into semi-oblivion. (I fully expect for there to be some sort of misunderstanding about my orders and her coming to me in tears. Let's face it. Most mornings I can't even take a shower without the two of them having a "misunderstanding.")

I'm not sure how long I was dozing. It could have been a few minutes, it could have been an hour. All I know is that a voice penetrated the fog in my head and it sounded so far away and yet so near. There it was again. A child's voice, plaintive and on the edge of panic. "Mummy," the siren calls. "Mummy!"

"I'm in the bedroom, honey," I groan as I wonder what could be the problem. "Come in here to me." I think I hear a gurgling sound as the not quite light footfalls of my daughter approach the haze of my room. "No," I think with a growing panic. "Please don't let her get that horrible stomach flu now. Please, not now."

"What's wrong, honey?" I am wondering if I can actually move fast enough to get her to the bathroom in time or if it is already too late and there is a trail of vomit leading into my room.

"Mummy," she gags briefly before continuing. "Orange *gag* seed."

I am almost giddy with relief. Ever since Kate had accidently bitten into an orange seed many months ago, the slightest hint of their taste was enough to send her into spasms. Dad wouldn't have realized this and he certainly wouldn't have thought to check each slice of her clementine for seeds. That's a mother's job.

With a practiced sweep of my finger, I fish out the broken seed from behind her bottom teeth. The spasms continue. "Alright, spit it out," I sigh and cup my hand in front of her mouth.

The soggy, fleshy fruit, lukewarm from her body temperature and oozing with juice and spit splat onto the palm of my hand. I can feel the air shimmer as she shudders in the shadows of my room, glad to be rid of the offensive taste. "Thanks, Mum," she chirps as she starts to leave me.

"Hey," I grumble from the bed. "Get back here."

"What?" She is almost defensive as she returns to me. She fears I will ban her from whatever activity is occupying her attention. She is probably on the computer, playing games on the Nick Jr. website. I have a horrible premonition of what my life would be like in less than ten years.

"Throw this in the trash, please," I sigh. I really don't expect her to do it. She really is a very helpful kid, but taking a gross, slimy piece of underchewed orange from my hand is possibly asking a bit too much.

"Oh," she says chirpily, relieved that she will be able to continue playing with Dora, Diego, Wubzy..... whatever a Wubzy is. "Okay!" She puts her hand out and waits for the transfer. As I wipe my hand on whatever tissue I can find next to the bed, she calls back to me. ""Mummy! Where is the trash?"

Oh, she is so much like her father sometimes I fear for my sanity. I know for a fact that there are no less than four trash receptacles within five feet of her. "In the bathroom, Kate," I croak to her. "Put it in the bathroom trash."

"Okay, Mum!" She calls a few moments later. "I did it!" She reports happily.

I've always known that being a mom was hard work. I've seen my Mom do it. It's a never ending, thankless job filled with ungrateful kids and husbands that take you for granted. I just must have temporarily forgotten what I had signed up for. With Kate in school a few hours a day, the view of my job description must have gotten a bit hazy. The startling clarity of the reality of what my job entailed came lasering back into focus. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, twenty-four hours a day. No sick days or vacations.

And I'd sign that contract again in a second.

But maybe I'd negotiate some better benefits.

Maybe.