House of Phlegm

We have had a virus in the house for over two weeks now, leaving us mucus-filled, hacking and limp with ab and lung exertion. On good days we sigh "finally!" and bundle Shawn Joaquin up, sending him out the door under the influence of Motrin and Robitussin, On bad days we stay in and watch Plaza Sesamo, baseball highlights and "house" TV. In between there are countless readings of Pinocchio and Big Chickens, nasal suctioning, hissy fits, coughing spasms followed by minimal but disturbing incontinence, puzzles, playdoh and hours of general malaise and thoughts of "when will this ever end". When coupled with Shawn Joaquin's new habit of waking every two hours with a scream and a wail for one of us, we are all sleep-deprived and cranky and not ready for prime time.

Shawn Joaquin, once the sole inhabitant of the center of the world and He Who Could Do No Wrong, is finding himself as patient zero and at the short end of this phlegm stick.

Shawn Joaquin, please stop touching your sister's face.
Shawn Joaquin, please stop grabbing her.
Shawn Joaquin, please stop pushing her.
Shawn Joaquin, please wipe your nose. NO. With a tissue, not your shirt.
Shawn Joaquin, please stop whining and use words.
Shawn Joaquin...
...put your underwear on.
...stop crying.
...pick up your books.
...go back to bed.
...drink this medicine.
...I already answered that 10 times. Stop asking.
...that's one.
...that's two.
...that's time out.

He is sick, cranky, anxiety-ridden and in need of hugs and cuddling and extra books, but Madelena's matching illness and mobility means that he is often told to wait 5 more minutes that turn into 10 or 15 or an eternity. I go to bed feeling guilty for his lack of focused attention and the repetition of the word "no" throughout his day. I try to make up for this with exclamations of joy when I pick him up from school, reminding him of how much I missed him during the day. Or with 15 minutes of magical "tunnel" time in the newly discovered drainage pipe we found in Montclair last week. This weekend we took a special trip, just the two of us, to howl like coyotes in the middle of the pipe and then eat a single, quarter-sized chocolate soccer ball - a usually forbidden pleasure.

I think of my friend Lorraine, with six children that constantly need love, attention, discipline, diaper changes, food, naps, guidance and more — all of which they appear to get on a regular basis. How can I complain about two sick kids and lack of sleep by comparison? How can I tell Shawn Joaquin "five more minutes" and forget about him when I have only two children to keep track of?

As I write this, Shawn Joaquin is hacking on the sofa, mesmerized by Sesame Street and completely unaware of the mucus running down his face and the cheerio stuck to the bottom of his foot. Madelena is smearing egg in her hair and trying to shove a plastic monkey up her nose while laughing at something only she can see out the window. As I look at my dirty but happy children, I vow to spend more time saying yes and less time saying no, and to stop complaining about my time in the House of Phlegm. Instead, I need to recognize that this is one of the few times when my children are both here and happy to be with their mama and in a few short years I will be uncool, less outwardly needed and the one saying to Shawn Joaquin "hey, can we read a book together" and desperately hoping he says yes.