Looks Like I Picked the Wrong Week

…to quit sniffing glue.

For those of you who don’t know, that’s a quote from Airplane!, one of my favorite movies. And for me, it rings true this week. 

Except instead of “week,” I mean “month.” And instead of “sniffing glue,” I mean “drinking.”

Tighe and I opted to have a Dry January after a December full of indulging. Holiday parties, happy hours, brunches, and other random get-togethers that all involve eating and drinking. Because Jesus.

So, we decided to give up drinking for the month. It’s like intermittent fasting, but for the liver. We’ve done it before and since we’re not the heaviest of drinkers anyway, it’s not a huge sacrifice. 

Except that this January has been the longest January in the history of recorded Januaries. Especially this last week. 

The week kicked itself off with an unexpected four-day weekend, thanks to a snow day and the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday. 

Fine. That’s manageable.

And actually, MLK Monday was much easier than it could have been, thanks to the flu.

In fact, so was Sunday night, when all four kids were in bed, asleep, by 7:15pm. Unprecedented. Worth having a celebratory drink. But I had some chocolate instead.

But then, around 9pm, just as Tighe and I were about to wrap up and head upstairs for bed, we heard heavy, uneven footsteps clunking—no, stumbling—down the steps, accompanied by a whimper. 

“Nate, go back to bed!”

He likes to sneak down to check NBA scores, like a gambling addict.

“My head really hurts!”

He had turned his typical smile totally upside down and his head was cocked back in agony.

“Drink water!” It’s the same advice I give all of them for any ailment. Hungry? You’re actually thirsty, drink water. Constipated? Flush it out with water. Lethargic? Energize with water. Lamenting the anguish of having three siblings? Sip some water.

“Nooooo!” he wailed, annoyed at my unwillingness to sympathize. “It’s not that, it’s my head, it just hurts…reallybad.”

By the end of the sentence, his voice trailed off and he resumed crying. Tighe and I still hadn’t budged from our butt grooves in the sofa. 

“Oh, God! I’m gonna throw up!” He ran past us to the bathroom off the kitchen, wailing as bubbly drool spilled from his open mouth. He looked rabid.

We glanced at each other and rolled our eyes. Because every time Nate’s the slightest bit sick, he has the same response. He wails and cries and forces himself to vomit bile into the toilet. It’s disgusting and it’s pitiful.

Sam, on the other hand, could have the coronavirus, complete with a twist of lime, and barely wince. He’d continue plugging along at his turtle-like pace, too consumed with his constant coloring and Lego-building to notice his fever symptoms.

But Nate, at the slightest sniffle, immediately retreats to his death bed, requesting  the latest Dave Pilkey book, a bag of Cheez-its, and a priest on his slow march up the steps. 

“Whyyyyy? Oh, why?” he was continuing to slobber and drool through his Nancy Kerrigan impression as I was starting to get irritated that he was cutting into my bedtime routine. 

“Nate, stop. Drink some water, blow your nose, and go to bed.”

“It’s just so, so, so….bad!” For a kid who reads all the time, his vocabulary sure was lacking tonight. Which perhaps was a sign of legitimate illness.

Finally, I remembered the new electronic thermometer my mom had given me for Christmas. She’s really good at those practical gifts. It’s like giving out toothbrushes for Halloween. Shout-out to our SB champion neighbor, Pat Mahomes.

So, more excited about trying out my new gadget than I was concerned about Nate’s condition, I unboxed the thermometer, skimmed the directions and applied it to his forehead. 

101.8 degrees. 

“Okay, now we’re talking, Nate. You have a fever. How about some medicine to help you sleep?”

Nate has a notorious historyof an aversion to medicine. 

We escorted him upstairs and after forcing another round of bile into the toilet, he stared at the grape-flavored, dime-sized acetaminophen tablets like he was examining cyanide tablets a superior officer had instructed him to take upon capture. Weakened, he laid on the floor in front of the toilet and reluctantly nibbled his first ever dose of Children’s Tylenol.

Either he’s finally starting to embrace modern medicine or he really feels like crap, I thought to myself. 

He woke twice more during the night, feverish and weak. The next morning, Martin Luther King Day don’t forget, Sam also woke with a fever. But again, because he never reports his symptoms unless he’s trying to avoid a chore, I don’t think I would have even noticed that Sam was sick, even though both boys stayed in bed until well after 10am. 

When they finally made their way downstairs—delicately—they dragged themselves to the sofa where they collapsed and spent the remainder of the day, only lifting their heads to have their temperatures taken with the nifty new thermometer. 

Meanwhile, fueled by my morning coffee and my very tangible role as “Dr. Mom,” I began lecturing. It started with praise of Dr. King’s commitment to peaceful resistance and the history of race relations in America. It continued with something about the Cold War and the current state of affairs in North Korea. Eventually, we got to Pearl Harbor and Japanese internment camps and the federal government’s mistreatment of Native Americans. I was on a roll.

It helped, of course, that Nate, for once, was too weak to interrupt me and Sam was too weak to escape. 

From underneath their massive blankets on the couch, they both looked up at me with droopy eyelids and flushed, feverish cheeks, so full of resentment for my social justice-themed history lesson that it seemed to make them sicker.

Only Tess, who never spiked a fever at all this past week, followed along. She stood next to me, hand on hip and nodding, as if to say “Preach, Mom!” It’s nice to have an ally. 

Every so often, she’d point an index finger to the sky, cock her head to one side as she turned to Nate and Sam, and repeat what I had just said. 

“Yeah, Nate and Sam! Rosa Parks sat in the front!” as if she’d known this famous civil rights story her whole life and had decided to finally clue them in.

“I know, Tess!” If there’s one thing Nate hates, it’s the possibility that Tess—or Sam or Lou, eventually—might be as smart as he is.

Eventually, my coffee wore off and I retreated to the dining room to do some work. Nate, Sam, and Tess spent the rest of the day alternating between Peppa Pig and Disney+ with occasional breaks to play with Lou, sip some fluids, or have their temperature taken. I must have checked each kid’s temperature at least twenty-five times that day, and only Nate’s and Sam’s were ever above the normal 98.6 degrees. I kept both boys home on Tuesday and Wednesday, sent them to school on Thursday, and we were blessed with another snow day on Friday. 

And one of the days—I can’t even remember which one at this point—I declared to be “screen-free.” Although they’re all really good at finding things do to away from the TV, Kindle, laptop, and phone, there are always those moments when a friendly game of Battleship, for example, devolves into mayhem. Tiny pieces get thrown around the dining room, punches are thrown, and death threats are made. And knowing that a movie or some mindless YouTube videos would totally diffuse the situation, I regret my morning proclamation that we’d be Amish that day. 

For a little added excitement, Tighe was in Toronto for work on Thursday and almost missed his flight home on Friday afternoon. I sent him a reply when he texted and asked how things were going at home:

“Looks like I picked the wrong month to quit drinking.” 

But, for the record, we all survived and remained alcohol-free.

That day anyway.