by Tara Shafer posted in Parenting

I secretly kind of like it when my school-age kids are sick. Not really sick; the run-of-the-mill childhood illness kind of stuff. The rip-roaring short-lived bugs, the earaches, a manageable fever -- I will take them all. (This is not to disrespect the hero's journey of the parents with children are really ill. I cannot imagine what that is like, nor will I disrespect their experience by speculating.)
I suppose I just like dusting off my mom cape when I am actually able to provide comfort; it's a throwback to when I could address the childhood hurts with relative ease.
I arm myself with a cool compress, a hot water bottle, a book, and a roaring fire. I lay a cool hand on a febrile forehead. I lock the door to the larger world. These children grew me. When they were little we explored the world together. We had tea parties in the boughs of knotty trees. We journeyed through so many things until we hit the necessary crossroads of school. It is right and good that this separation occurs. Growing up is hard for children as they enter their distinct worlds, facing their unique challenges. I know less and less of what goes on at each moment.
But last night my fifth grader woke up sick. We hung out. Earache and stomach pains seemed to have claimed him. This morning, ashen, he announced to me that he would not be going to school. We went to the doctor, we went to the store to grab some medicine and some sick food. We came home and made a fire. ...