By: Emily Carter
Updated: Aug. 3, 2016
Originally Published: Sep. 27, 2012
I’m currently battling what seems to be a chest infection. It could be anything from pneumonia to bronchitis or even something as dramatic as the bubonic plague. As a self-employed mother of two, visiting the doctor ranks somewhere around number 57 on my to-do list, so here I am, self-medicating and waiting for it to pass.
Last night, after a particularly intense coughing episode, I found myself reminiscing about my pre-child days—those luxury years when being sick felt like a mini-vacation. I recall waking up on a Monday morning feeling slightly under the weather (often paired with a hangover) and expertly putting on my best croaky voice to inform my boss that while I was eager to work, I simply couldn’t risk spreading my germs. My boss would readily agree, and I would relish my unexpected day off.
Of course, this was before the era of work laptops and constant connectivity. I would roll back into bed—ah, those sweet sleep-filled days—until noon, whip up a bacon sandwich (purely for medicinal purposes), and indulge in mindless daytime TV, all while comfortably clad in pajamas. Occasionally, my mother would drop by with homemade chicken soup, or my then-boyfriend-now-husband would call from the pharmacy to offer cough drops and soothing tissues. Oh, how I miss those days of being sick!
Fast forward to today: I have no boss to call in sick to, and having relocated to Spain, my mother’s comforting soup would likely arrive too late and cold if she were to bring it over. When I inform her of my illness, she chuckles—not out of cruelty, but more in a “welcome to the parenting club, I’ve been expecting you” way, a sentiment she has held since the birth of my first child. After all, she has patiently awaited the day I would face the same trials she did.
She reminds me that since I hosted a birthday party for my two-year-old just three days after giving birth to my second, I have inadvertently placed myself on a pedestal of Superwoman-like expectations from which I cannot descend. My husband, too, seems unfazed. This morning, after waking our household with my honking cough—probably alarming the neighbors—my husband suggested I sleep in the spare room instead. Apparently, his busy schedule takes precedence over my illness.
So, I press on. After a week of persistent coughing and discomfort, I managed to unearth an old packet of antibiotics that the internet assured me would suffice for a chest infection. I’ve also taken swigs from a bottle of some viscous black concoction that looks like it emerged from the depths of despair, with a scent to match. Neither remedy appears to be effective, but at least I’m making an effort.
Now entering my second week of sounding like a seasoned smoker, I find myself secretly hoping my raspy voice adds a hint of allure, though the reality is that I can no longer hit the high notes in Disney songs—much to my children’s relief. This afternoon, amidst a particularly violent coughing fit, I was on the phone with a client, vegetables boiling over, and my three-year-old calling from the bathroom that she was finished.
After hanging up, I staggered to the bathroom, doubled over, tears streaming down my face. My five-year-old rushed in, worry etched across her face.
“Don’t worry,” I said, gripping the towel rail for stability. “Mummy is fine.”
“I know,” she replied, “I just want to know when dinner will be ready.”
And that, dear readers, encapsulates the essence of being ill while parenting.
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Summary:
This article humorously reflects the struggles of being a self-employed parent while managing illness. The author reminisces about the carefree days of being sick before children and contrasts them with the current reality of juggling health challenges and parenting responsibilities.