When moms get sick, nothing gets done. Well, let me rephrase that. Certain things might actually get done because mom is too busy hacking up a lung to notice. Or care.
This past week, I spent Sunday on the couch — coughing, trying to soothe a sore throat, and sweat out a fever. The only sympathy I got was from our dog, who curled up with me on the couch:
I was too infirm to get anything done — other than busting through Level 142 on Candy Crush, bitches! In spite of that accomplishment, everyone’s perspective on gettin’ shit done is a little different.
From the kids’ perspective, here’s what got done:
- Marathon watching sessions of Lab Rats on Disney XD
- Ripping into a package of Ritz crackers and leaving crumbs all over the futon in the playroom
- Using the dog instead of the vacuum to remove the Ritz cracker crumbs from the futon
- Waiting an entire 43 seconds before barking at each other about whose turn it was to play Madden13 (or 12, or 11, or whatever the hell year, because we damn near have all of them)
- Complaining that they had no clean underwear
- Complaining that they had no clean socks
- Complaining that they had no clean dishes to eat off of
- Complaining that I didn’t seem to care that they had no clean underwear, socks or dishes to eat off of
From the husband’s perspective, here’s what got done:
- Not dinner. Because no one wanted meatloaf with a side of strep.
- Not him. Because his wife was too busy hacking up a lung to be interested in ‘bringing the sexy back’. No, not interested in front or sideways either, Romeo.
From the mom’s perspective, here’s what got done:
- Not laundry by the 3 able-bodied men in the house
- Not dishes by the 3 able-bodied men in the house
- Dinner. Ordered via a drive-thru by the husband. Who didn’t get done.
Mom doesn’t need to be sick for that to happen. That being dinner ordered through a drive-thru.
Not dad not getting done. Back, front, or otherwise.