…as a Sick Day.

Have I written this post before?  I’m too sick to remember.

Thanks to a persistent fever and a painfully clogged milk duct, I’ve spent the bulk of this week on my couch.  As I was lying there on Wednesday, holding Lil Mil hostage between my thighs (and listening to her laugh hysterically as she leaned back against one leg and banged wildly on the other), I discovered yet another way that writing and mothering are similar.  In neither case does a fever of 101.9 give you the freedom to crawl into bed and pull the covers over your head.

Sure you can, but your baby – whether human or literary – will be neglected for as long as you’re under there.  Back when I went to an office every day, sick days had some silver lining:  yes, my body had to do battle with whatever was ailing me, but my mind got a break.  A brief reprieve from the incessant inner monologue of tasks not-yet-complete.  I was sick.  If there was something that had to get done that day, someone else would have to do it.

Mommies and writers don’t get to turn their brains off.  Even if someone else is watching your baby while you’re sick (a luxury I didn’t have), you’re still the mommy.  There is still a little person that needs your attention.  Or your boob.  And as for your literary baby, well, its cries aren’t muffled by a closed door or a thick comforter.  In fact, they only get louder as the room gets quieter and darker.

So, farewell sick day.  You were fun while you lasted.