“Hey, bud, could you open this for me?”
My hand stinging after trying the task myself, I hand our oversized water cup to my 10-year-old so he can unscrew the cap for me. My son, more than happy to be a helper — that sweet soul of his — prances over with a “Sure!” and a heroic twist of the cap.
My eyes begin to well with defeat . . . oh, the humility . . . then, my heart turns to pride and the warm tears roll down my cheeks as my 10-year-old continues. On toward the freezer, he goes to find some frozen berries to make our usual “I’m feeling yucky” drink for me. He knows just what to do to take care of his mama, after the countless times I’ve done this for him.
He notices the tears, so I admit, “Sorry, honey, Mom’s in a lot of pain right now. Thank you so much for your help. You are the best.”
He offers to walk me upstairs when I’m ready and tuck me into my bed. That sweet soul, again, so grown and reliable — a foreshadowing of his pop-ins to check on me, bring me some food to nibble, and remind me to drink my water later that night.
I feel like a frail, little old woman. My body so achy, weak, easily pained, clogged with gunk, feeling my pounding heart in my eardrums. With his dad busy in the other room, my boy is ready to help his mama with whatever she needs in this small moment.
A momentary reversal of roles that has me, admittedly, shaken.
Here I am, 34 years old, already needing my just-barely-a-tween son. I’ve needed his help before, when it comes to problems like the television and all the stupid remotes, apps, and settings (Gen Alpha knows what’s up with all that). I’ve needed him to fetch me things many times before, sure. My son is a natural helper, so he “helps” me often.
But I stand in the kitchen realizing I’ve never needed him in this way before . . . the basic functional, strength way.
It’s the small moments of their growing up that stop us in our tracks, right? I guess I knew these moments would come, when I would need his strength to help me. I just didn’t imagine it being this soon.
Motherhood and Chronic Illness
It’s been several years since my chronic illnesses had flared up and made me bedridden for a few days. But with my boys a bit older and more aware, they’re witnessing their mama NOT able to muscle through tasks, getting a peek into the fact that sometimes grownups cry and hurt too.
Mothering with chronic illness, or parenting with a spouse who has chronic illness — it sets us back sometimes. We all get sick at times, yes. However, a chronic illness is just that — chronic, and illness. Chronically ill.
For me, it’s every day dealings to keep my body healthy enough to get out of bed. I’m not lazy; I’m always fighting illness, constantly on the cusp of a full-blown infection if I don’t keep up with my at-home treatments. It’s a steady, low-level fatigue as my body works harder every day to just be okay. And it’s a mental battle to not compare my capacity for getting things done to the person next to me. It has meant pushing my body too much in the past, learning the hard way that my body sends signals to REST, and I can’t afford to ignore those. I can actually physically damage my body further by ignoring those signals.
And now, I’m realizing, chronic illness as a mother means my kids may need to step up a bit more sometimes — dare I say, grow up a little quicker than I want them to?
But nothing makes me more proud of my children than to see their look of care and actions of nurturing someone else who is hurting and unwell. In my weakened state, I am comforted by the fact that my kids are learning life lessons through it after all.
I don’t need to cover my weakness or pretend I’m strong all the time with them. The real, messy parts of my life as their mom are important to dig into at times too. We’re all in this life together.
