“Zacharie?” Charlie meekly called to his brother’s bedroom from his own bed in the room next door. It was still 30 minutes until his bedtime, but I’d already been in bed for 90 minutes.
“Zacharie, momma and daddy are going to die?,” he continued his thought through to the end, his voice trembling at what had just popped in to his head.
We parents are in a bad state on this evening in our home.
When I came home from an abbreviated day at work, my wife was collapsed on the couch surrounded by LEGO and iPads, Disney XD blaring. She had been like that since I had left her 6 hours earlier.
“I just need you guys to go to bed, Mommy and Daddy feel like we’re dying right now,” was the plea I had issued minutes earlier in a desperate attempt to underline my state of health and frustration with them. Instead, after a childhood filled with too many Disney movies with dead parents, he suddenly felt like he was about to become Nemo, Elsa, or Simba.
It’s another one of those times I miss my parents. I even miss my in-laws.
I’m an introvert, I’m fine with my relatively solitary life and few friends. But my wife, an outgoing person in sales, is desperate for the friends she had 6 years ago. When we met she hadn’t moved further than 10km away from the same house. Her best friends were girls she knew in kindergarten or had worked with in pubs in her 20s. The roots ran deep and they had each other’s back in an instant.
If this double dose of fevervomitdiarrheastrep had hit in Vancouver, we’d have Nurse Nana or Nurse Friend over to wrangle the monkeys, get them fed, and in bed on time.
Instead, I’m begging my 6 and 9 yr old to look after themselves. Because mommy and daddy are dying.
And now my son is going to have nightmares.