When mom gets sick

My third grade teacher, Mrs. Bolton, had a favorite phrase: Mind over matter. She’d whip it out whenever a kid was struggling with something. She delivered it with cheerful optimism, despite the situation.

Hard time doing a chin up? Mind over matter!

Trouble with that cursive capital “G”? Mind over matter!

Can’t carry that heavy cello case? Mind over matter!

Sometimes it seemed like a bit of a stretch, but she’d repeat her mantra at least once a day, regardless of if we were scratching our heads in confusion or not.

One day, Joey, the skinny, dark-haired boy that sat next to me, raised his hand, complaining that he didn’t feel well.

“Mind over mat—” she began.

I recall looking over just in time to see Joey lift the lid to his flip-top desk and throw up inside.

I guess one’s mind can’t always conquer matter.

Now, as a gown-up, I think of poor Joey whenever I start to feel sick. It starts with that familiar tightening in my throat and that not-quite-right feeling in my back. I think to myself, “No! I can’t get sick! I’m The Mom!” and I evoke the powers of mind over matter.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Despite my best mind over matter attempt, I recently came down with strep throat and was rendered out of commission for two, full days. Luckily, before getting sick I’d caught up on laundry and stocked the fridge, so at least I had supplies.

“Mom, I need socks!” called my daughter from downstairs.

“Mom, where’s my snack?” shouted the other.

My swollen tonsils were so painful I couldn’t muster the strength to project an audible response.

Generally, when moms get sick, the whole balance of the house gets thrown out of whack. Housekeeping goes out the window, meal preparation is shoddy at best and it’s generally every man for himself.

This is true regardless of if it’s a single-parent household or not. Moms are the glue that bind, the grease in the gears, the wind under the wings. Take mom out of the equation and you’ve got chaos. In a single-parent household, when Mom’s down, it can be downright anarchy.

By the time I was able to drag myself out of bed and slowly make my way downstairs, the pleas of “Mom! Mom!” had stopped.

The girls were busy helping each other dig through laundry baskets to find clean socks. They’d already found a couple of granola bars in the pantry and tossed them into their backpacks. They had their hair and teeth brushed and, shock of all shocks, they even fed their little brother by giving him his own granola bar – unwrapped and everything.

It was a beautiful sight. I stood in the doorway, full of pride (and penicillin) taking in the scene. It was heartwarming. Where had my babies gone? They were so responsible, so grown up.

Then, I looked around the kitchen to see spills on the counter, school books strewn on the floor and the contents of my purse (which is strictly off limits, by the way) dumped out on the kitchen table. Just then, the kids looked up and saw me…

“MOM!” they yelled in unison.

Mind over matter. Mind over matter! MIND OVER MATTER!