When do I get a sick day
Sep. 25th, 2012 10:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xylieEnd of quarter has hit like a bomb. And I came to work feeling like crap because there are people in my house. As an only child illness had a certain amount of style. I had my books, my videos (showing my age, aren't I) and a place to sleep. And I could do it in about three rooms in the house and not be disturbed by anybody.
Now my house is chaos central. Which is my choice. I brought the cats, we had the kids, and we made the financial sacrifice of having an nanny to specifically keep James at home for the first two years of his life. We also chose to live in a densely populated neighborhood.
What this means is sick days are never sick days. They are sit and pet the gatos days. They are have James search the house for Tricksy Mum-Mum days. They are also, spend day watching Sick Jim play the computer days.
My father made a kind of art about being sick. He would wear his deeply colored robe around the house, a scarf around his neck, and wait for it, wait for it, slipper socks. In his hand would be a yellow legal tablet. He wrote everything down, not speaking, sparing his throat entirely. He could do this for days. Same getup. He looked a bit like Hercule Poirot's less fashionable brother.
Sick Jim is not Sick Dad. No legal pad, nada. Instead there is the Germanic concern about my health. Every so often questions such as "Have you had anything to eat or drink?" must be asked even if I am ensconced with a book or watching Ben Hur. My confused stare as to why anyone would interrupt the chariot scene to ask this on a sick day speaks volumes of the difference in our mothers' approach to illness.
And days without Sick Jim or Sick Kids, you ask? Why I wouldn't know. I am the gold standard in Luebke wellness. If Mom's sick, someone else must be in want of a sick day as well.
Now my house is chaos central. Which is my choice. I brought the cats, we had the kids, and we made the financial sacrifice of having an nanny to specifically keep James at home for the first two years of his life. We also chose to live in a densely populated neighborhood.
What this means is sick days are never sick days. They are sit and pet the gatos days. They are have James search the house for Tricksy Mum-Mum days. They are also, spend day watching Sick Jim play the computer days.
My father made a kind of art about being sick. He would wear his deeply colored robe around the house, a scarf around his neck, and wait for it, wait for it, slipper socks. In his hand would be a yellow legal tablet. He wrote everything down, not speaking, sparing his throat entirely. He could do this for days. Same getup. He looked a bit like Hercule Poirot's less fashionable brother.
Sick Jim is not Sick Dad. No legal pad, nada. Instead there is the Germanic concern about my health. Every so often questions such as "Have you had anything to eat or drink?" must be asked even if I am ensconced with a book or watching Ben Hur. My confused stare as to why anyone would interrupt the chariot scene to ask this on a sick day speaks volumes of the difference in our mothers' approach to illness.
And days without Sick Jim or Sick Kids, you ask? Why I wouldn't know. I am the gold standard in Luebke wellness. If Mom's sick, someone else must be in want of a sick day as well.
