The Hands Tick on the Flu Clock

I have an estimated twelve hours left before f-day arrives. Estimated, because maybe my body is going to really show out—maybe I will get a little more time. Or maybe—whispers some small voice of hope—I have some level of immunity. Maybe.

Mothers like me, we always go down. Flu-day takes us, because no one else gets a cough directly to the face, and no one else invites a virus into their bed. So mothers like me rest here with the light off, watching the hands on the flu clock slowly tick. Yep, twelve hours.

The flushed, feverish skin of the boy’s face is to my right. The steady nasal snot-snorting sound of the tot to my left. The uncomfortable boy had wanted me close as he drifted off to sleep, and sleep had come quickly. I am free to take my leave, but I can’t decide what I ought to do with my remaining twelve hours of good health.

“What’s that?” The tot just grabbed my face and angled it toward her. Her wide blue eyes were as alert as ever as they blinked in time with her snot-snorting rhythm.

“It’s your papa in the kitchen. Go to sleep,” I whispered. I turned my face away once more in a clear body language message of go to sleep.

I considered my options:

I could get up and clean the bathrooms in preparation for f-day tomorrow. No sick person wants to look at their chores they don’t have the energy to do. No, that’s lame. Why would I want to spend my remaining twelve hours of feverless time inside a toilet?

If only the French bakery was open. I definitely want to spend my last twelve hours of good health with an almond cream croissant, and possibly one or two other very worthy pastries. That almond cream croissant can always be heard crying out from behind the glass case. “You—yes, you. Take me. You know you want to. In your mouth. That’s right, lick the cream off. Oh yes, just like that…” That sort of tongue pleasure is definitely how I should be spending the last twelve hours.

“Mama, what was that?” The tot jerked my face back in her direction again.

“It’s my stomach growling. Go to sleep.” I turned my face away again, because eye contact is the one sure way to keep a toddler awake for the amount of time it takes to satisfy multiple almond cream croissants.

Maybe I should do something I never have time to do anymore. Like paint. I could slap together the beginnings of a painting, so that when I have a fever I can be impressed with my personal accomplishments. Who knows, the fever might even inspire how I want to finish the painting off. I can call it something like In Anticipation of F-Day. That sounds very obscure, and painterly.

“Mama, what was that?” Again, the old face jerk.

“The sound of sleep,” I whispered, leaving my face before her as I closed my eyes in demonstration.

…

Demonstration never stays demonstration. Rookie mistake.

Now I’m down to nine hours, it’s the middle of the night, and I’m still undecided. I think I will just rest here while listening to the breathing of the two best things I have ever made, let Big Dog get in a few face slurps, and write a useless post about it.

And the rain is falling hard against the roof. This might just be perfect, if only I had that almond cream croissant.