Sick Day

Some days your trusted unquestionably. Some days your questioned as to why your being trusted. Today was one of those days for me. I don’t know what I did to have my ability as a father questioned in such a way as it was this morning, yet I was subjected to the third degree by Kisha and my wife. You see, I was going to take a sick day and stay home with my ailing son. (A father does the noble Florence Nightingale gig and instantly the Woman DNA kicks into over drive.)

“Daddy, Jaden is sick. You do know what that means? It means you have to take care of him, comfort him, care him back to health. Ah, yeah”, said my little Amazon Princess before leaving for a grueling three hours of preschool. “Mommy and I will be back later, and we’ll know if you took care of him or not. We’re watching you.”

Farah had that look on her face, the one she had when Kisha got her first series of vaccinations. You know the one, the wide eyed, pleading look through tear filled eyes as the doctor approaches the helpless baby with the impossibly long needle. That look with the unmistakable message in her eyes, “I know this is for the best, but if you hurt my baby I’ll take you down with your own tongue depressor”. There was no escaping that look as she slowly, unblinkingly made her way to and out the back door. (I have to admit, one moment more under that oppressive glare and I would have wet myself. It was that commanding and threatening a look. I kid you not. A death chill runs up my spine just recalling it. How do wives do that?!)

One would think I was some kind of rookie father, or something. Having no experience taking care of a sick child. (Ok, there was that one little mishap with the blowtorch when we were first married. But that could have happened to any father and son. Its not like his hair didn’t grow back normally…well, almost normally. The point is, it grew back.) I’m a man. I’m his father. I can handle a slight bit of projectile vomiting, not to mention the projectile from the other end. ( Who knew a body could do that?! This clearly wasn‘t covered in the father handbook.)

All went fine. Then Jaden said, (Yesssss…I’ll interpret his signs for the those of you who are Signing Impaired), “Father dear, there is a great evacuated abyss within me. Truly, I am on the mends and feel comparatively famished. May I please have some sustenance? That is, Father dear, if you think it to be wise.”

Never being one to withhold a heart touching request from one of my kids, I promptly whipped up two bowls of Jaden’s favorites, “Hell Hath No Furry Like These Bikini Atoll Atomic Chicken Wings”. (I found the recipe in the Misery Synod Lutheran Holiday  Cookbook. It recommends  not putting the wings in a plastic bowl…due to melting…, nor a metal bowl…due to severer burns from heat conduction…)  Uncharacteristically, he was only able to eat 10 or 12 of the wings.






 I asked him if he was alright, to which he replied, “Pardon me Father, the meal you have prepared for me is a true gastronomical delight and blessing, nevertheless, in light of the present delicacy of my constitution, I regretfully, yet respectfully, inform you that my duodenum appears to be  yet a bit wonky”.  With that, he was up and rocketing to the bathroom, all the while signing “excuse me” in the most mannerly fashion.

Being the good father, I assisted him in the bathroom for the next twenty minutes. (I think it best I not dwell on this visual image too long.)






Just as I was able to lay Jaden back down on the sofa, I got the first of many “buzzes of doom” on my iPhone. Yes, (your way ahead of me here), it was Farah texting to see how Jaden was and more importantly, whether I’d managed to kill him yet. (I never know that a buzzing iPhone could emote such rapacious admonishment till that exact moment, rendering a grown man wholly deaden with angst filled fright.)

The texted conversation went as such:

Farah: How is Jaden? (Clearly a question laden with accusation.)

Steve: Ummm…he is doing ok.

Farah: Really? Great! He hasn’t thrown up again?

(Pause in the conversation while I searched for the best life saving answer to such a blatantly incriminating remark.)

Steve: Yeah…once. All of a sudden it hit out no where. Most astonishing thing really…(Brilliant Dad deflection, sure to arouse no suspicion.)

Farah: Poor boy, well keep taking good care of him baby.

(She bought the brilliant rues. TOUCHDOWN!)

Steve: You know I will.


Two minutes later, the infernal device buzzed again:

Farah: Be sure to take his temperature and let me know what it is.

Steve: I was just about to do that.

(Truth was, I hadn’t thought about getting his temperature. I hadn’t taken a temperature since the kids where babies. Off I went, determined to get the job done. After a search, I found the red stemmed thermometer and necessary tools.  This would be an unpleasant task for any father, yet it had to be. Deterined, I made the long walk to the sofa and Jaden.)






“BUZZZ”

Farah: So what’s his temperature? I’ve been waiting forty-five minutes. Everything ok?

Steve: Yeah…all is fine. I don’t know what you’ve done to Jaden in the past, but he really hates having his temperature taken. He got one glimpse of the thermometer and stuff, then went wild! I don’t know what got into him?! He was so frantic to get away from me his signs were all stutters. I’ve never seen him so wide eyed and afraid.

After a bit more back and forth about the temperature taking, I assured her that his temperature was normal. ( What I didn’t tell her was I had to dip into my bag of Dad tricks and use the thermal gun on him to get a reading of his temperature. Only a father could be so intelligently resourceful to think of this solution.)





After all the thrashing and running over the temperature, the poor kid was all tuckered out. He just feel straight to sleep. I’m sure the rest will do him well. Hope the rest of the day goes as easy.