Good Memories of Being Sick

So, my title sounds like an oxymoron. Or I sound like a moron for writing it. Or something. Well, my little family has been sick for the last few days. Let me tell you it has been anything but fun. But, one good thing that has come of it, is that I think I have a better appriciation for being sick when I was still living at home. I have some great memories, not of the actual being sick part, but of the part where my mom and dad took such great care of me.

Growing up being sick went something like this: I'd wake up with a high fever, or puking, or feeling generally miserable for one reason or another. My mom would tuck me into her bed, which was always softer, and had more pillows, and somehow magically always made me more comfortable than being in my own bed. I could watch TV or a movie in bed if I wanted to, but usually I was feeling so miserable that I just slept. My mom would bring me Sprite with a straw, and would wake me up when I needed to take medicine. She'd even bring me toast with butter, cinnomon, and sugar on it. When my dad came home for his lunch break, he's always bring me a chocolate Premium Creamie popcicle. For the longest time growing up I thought cinnamon-sugar toast and Creamies were magic "get well" food, because I only ever had them when I was sick, and I always felt a little better afterwords. It wasn't like either of them waited on me hand and foot or anything, and it definitely wasn't worth faking sick for, but when I really was feeling lousy it was really nice to have parents who loved me and took care of me while I was trying to get well.

Suddenly now I am a mom with sick kids, and I'm sick, and believe me, if there's any cinnamon-sugar toast to be had, I'm the one making it (at least while Aaron's at work, he takes really good care of me too!). And forget sleeping until I'm well. Sometimes I wish I could just go back to my mom's house and curl up in her bed for awhile. But, something else that's amazing to me, is the love I have for my own children. Even when I feel like I'd be better off having someone smack me over the head with a large rock and left for dead, somehow I still manage to wipe noses, change diapers, make food, and snuggle two cute little guys who feel at least as miserable as I do. I'm not trying to say that I am amazing or to pat myself on the back, not at all. But when you love your kids you can keep giving and giving to them, long past the point you thought you'd be able to.