We have now officially entered the time of year that all parents, particularly working parents, dread. Every week, we run the gauntlet of whatever latest illness is doing the rounds, and say a silent prayer to the great bug-dispenser in the sky that our little ones won’t get struck down. (Or that, if they do, they’ll at least have the courtesy to wait until after the month’s end before coming a cropper.)
How many of us have taken a flyer at depositing a (moderately) sick child in the creche, so that we could get on with our own lives, offloading the endless nose-wiping and temperature-monitoring?
Perhaps there are some particularly conscientious parents out there who, at the first sign of a fever, snatch Little Johnny back into the comfort of his own home, where they dutifully kneel by his bedside, mopping his brow and feeding him chicken soup. But I’ve never met one.
Having said all that, I had to think long and hard about writing this piece. As a mother, how honest is too honest? What level of truth is acceptable within the confessions of a part-time mum? And what is simply more than any mother cares to admit? But then I thought, feck it. This is the reality of being a working parent in this day and age. This is what (honest) mothers openly admit to each another over exhausted coffees and rushed conversations at creche gates. So why not be truthful about it in print, for the benefit of everyone who has been faced with the Catch-22 predicament of sick child versus expectant boss?
Most of us working parents just limp along during these long winter months, struggling at our day jobs and half-minding our kids. As, right about now, we board the merry-go-round of family illnesses that is your typical Irish winter. That is, they get it. They recover. Then you get it. And so it drags on, until you can’t remember the last time you were all well.
Fever
This week, my son got his first temperature since starting creche. He came home, looked a bit off, refused his dinner and promptly developed a fever in excess of 39 degrees. I reached for my pink liquid companion. Followed by its orange partner in crime a couple of hours later. These ensured that we fought full throttle against impending doom, well and truly sent in the cavalry.
There followed a sleepless night and an exhausted toddler the next morning. He was still running a slight temperature. His little curls were matted to his forehead from an unsettled night of mooching around his cot. His vest stretched down over one shoulder, ever so slightly damp. He had big round rosy cheeks. The mere sight of him made me want to take him in my arms and curl up in bed with him for the day.
But it was 6.45am. And both his parents were expected at work in less than two hours’ time. He lounged around his cot, not intent on going anywhere any time soon, but not astoundingly sick either. Not so sick that you instinctively know what to do. So the inevitable debate started.
“What have you on today?”
“Well, the timing wouldn’t be great now, to be honest.”
“Well, I’ve stuff lined up as well,” I countered, as I recalled the assurances I’d given yesterday that I’d be available today. Made it clear that my job is more than a hobby.
Still in pyjamas, on four hours’ sleep, I tried to decide which took priority – my sick toddler or my job. While my instinct was with the former, my brain, I am ashamed to admit, was definitely with the latter. Because whatever about missing a day due to being unfit for work, my maternal instinct has not yet evolved to the extent that missing one because a two-foot-tall extension of myself happens to be sick is something I feel to be acceptable.
My work conscience would be at me all day were I to stay at home, no matter how understanding my boss was. My mum conscience, by contrast, is drowned out by the rough and tumble of the office the moment I walk through that door.
Wiping the sleep out of my eyes in the shower, I couldn’t help but think: “Oh, Jesus, it’s only bloody Tuesday. How many days until he recovers?”
I willed my sick toddler to hurry up and get better to avoid any further inconvenience to my busy work schedule. Nice, Mummy. Nice. I’m pretty sure “How to hurry your child better for the sake of your own career” is not a chapter to be found in any “What to Expect” book.
Decision made, I arrived at the creche an hour later with my sick child under one arm and a bottle of Calpol under the other. I looked at the staff, thinking: “Ah, ya will, ya will, ya will.” Not my finest hour.
They asked what his temperature was. And what it was last night. Oh, how easy it can be to massage those particular figures. They ventured to ask if I took it before, or after, I horsed the Calpol into him. I answered honestly. Ish. Had he vomited? Any sign of a rash? I felt like I was going through airport security. He passed. I think.
Relieved, I search for signs of judgment in his carer’s eyes. I desperately wanted to explain to her that yes, he was sick, and yes, I did care, but unfortunately I did still have a job to do, and if I left it every time he, his sister or I were remotely unwell, I would inevitably end up on unannounced leave about 50 per cent of the time. Which, no boss, no matter how understanding, would find sustainable.
But this conversation stayed inside my head. Instead, I just tried to remain professional, to explain what drugs he’d had, what drugs he’d need, muttering sheepishly about ringing me if he got “any worse”.
Child safely dispatched, I left the creche feeling like a hardcore employee and lousy mother, a stellar worker and crappy mum.
I got the call at 2.30pm to say that his temperature had risen again and could they have my permission to re-administer my liquid pink friend. “Absolutely,” I responded, just a little too quickly.
We had a polite conversation in which the creche owner reassured me that my little man was fine, despite having a temperature of more than 38 degrees and not having eaten his lunch. And so, having been granted a Get Out of Jail Free card, I hung up and tried to get on with my day. Because really, what choice did I have?
I had a job to do and, more to the point – guess what? – I wanted to do it. Bad mummy. Bad, bad mummy.
I dreaded the collection from the creche, dreaded what I was likely to find when I got there.
They always get sicker in the evening, particularly when they’ve had a room full of burly toddlers to contend with all day. And I knew, in all likelihood, that his temperature would rocket the moment I got him in the door. And I would try to kid myself that this fact was in no way related to his mother being too busy out taking on the world to look after him herself. Which wouldn’t work. So I’d manage to feel simultaneously worried sick and guiltridden, as I watched the digits on the thermometer go up and up and up.
The reality is that his getting sick, or remaining sick for that matter, was more than likely nothing to do with his being in creche.
The reality is that trained staff, with a solid eight hours’ sleep under their belts, were probably far better equipped to look after him that day than I was.
The reality is that those girls display levels of patience on a daily basis that I couldn’t even dream of. But the reality is also that I am still his mother, and that will forever mean that I will always feel that I should be the one nursing him better, regardless of what real life actually allows.
Having a sick child is hard. Having a sick child and a job stinks. The original lose/lose situation. Guilt at home or guilt in the office. Lucky you, you get to choose.
Calpol or no Calpol, roll on the spring.
