It was one of those days. My then young son reluctantly answered my call to rise and shine.
“I don’t feel good,” he whined from his cozy covering of blankets.
Looking at the clock I told him, “Get up and move around anyway. And we’ll see.”
He rolled out of bed and collapsed in a chair.
“I don’t feel good. I can’t go to school. I don’t feel good,” he insisted.
I put my hand on his forehead. Cool as a cucumber.
“Get a bowl of cereal or something to eat and we’ll see,” I said.
He ambled to the kitchen, got a bowl from the cupboard and a box of cereal.
He slumped over the table slurping up his cereal. He stood up, “I don’t feel good.”
I nodded sagely from my chair.
“Why don’t you dress anyway? Then let’s see how you feel.”
He slowly made his way to the bedroom, pulled on a pair of sweat pants, a t-shirt and sneakers.
“Brush your teeth,” I admonished him.
The next thing I knew, he had gathered up his backpack and walked out the door with his brothers.
No one called from school to say he was sick. He came home cheerful enough in the afternoon and played outside before supper. He never said another word that day about being sick.
Not that his morning sickness disappeared forever after that one day. We had that same conversation and scene many times through his years before he left for college.
Since he graduated with honors and now works in a highly skilled professional job, I guess he managed college without my prompting him to move along.
He is doing just fine. I am not.
I woke up this morning and went through a long list of reasons why I really did not need to be at work today. I have been fighting a cold for days. My back felt like it might begin to seize. I have done my share of being responsible and getting things done. I deserved a day off.
I said all that to myself.
I told myself I needed a sick day.
My internal parent rolled me out of bed anyway.
“Go eat breakfast,” the mom’s voice insisted.
I plodded my way down the hall to the kitchen.
Once in the kitchen, I looked at the late night clutter of dishes and reminded myself that I am the Somebody who should load them into the dishwasher.
While the bread toasted, I loaded the few dishes and washed off the counter.
I made a fruit smoothie and pulled out food for lunch.
“Get dressed.”
Just thinking about dressing for the day, I felt my shoulders slumping. I did not want to have to even think about choosing clothes for work.
I did it anyway and dressed. “Let’s see how you feel …” the voice of of my son’s childhood whispered.
The bed looked so inviting that I pulled up the covers and began smoothing out the wrinkles.
The little kid voice inside my head whined, “I don’t want to go. I don’t feel good.”
The mother voice said, “Gather up your stuff and let’s see how it goes for a couple hours, okay?”
I did pull out a comfortable, warm coat that I could wear in the office all day – my version of sweat pants and a t-shirt.
Once I made it into work. I slumped into my seat and began the routines of the day: checking email, making a list of things to do, reading the paper and clipping stories for the files.
The editor called the morning meeting and before I knew it, the reluctance dissipated and routine ruled my day. I might not have wanted to be here, but somehow, someway, I was – if for no other reason than the fact that the years of telling my kids to get up, eat, dress and go to school has come back to bite me and remind me that I too should just try.
The mid-winter slump has hit as always and still no one stays home in bed at my house.
(Joan Hershberger is a staff writer at the News-Times and author of “Twenty Gallons of Milk and Other Columns from the El Dorado News-Times.” Email her at joanh@everybody.org)