The workshop for humor writing, human interest writing, networking and getting published

Erma Bombeck Wrighters' Workshop Banner

Sickness does make you the best mommy

I’m lying in bed, half worried to death because I cannot fix breakfast for my family.

I feel like the Salvation Army is doing a street march in my head. I also have a bout of diarrhea that came knocking minutes after going to bed.

In the meantime, my 7-year-old triplets are downstairs, simulating a war zone in the living room.  I quickly grab my phone to check what time it is. Sh*t, it’s 11 a.m.. I’d planned to call my GP at 7.  The last time I checked the time was 6:57 a.m.

I call Dr. Cy, then I call out to the trio. They come rushing to my bedroom, and my son blurts out, “Mom, I’m hungry.”  I direct Liz, the eldest, to go to the kitchen and get soda and cookies. They hug me for being such a nice mom, for allowing them to have an unhealthy breakfast without them begging.

I call a cab and then pick a dress because I only have the strength to wear one piece of clothing. Then I slip my feet into sandals and use the last ounce of strength remaining to brush my teeth and comb my hair.  As I leave, they call out, “Mom, don’t forget ice cream. You promised.”  I nod and slip out.

I must look like Bloody Mary because my GP takes me in quickly. He tests for malaria and I test positive. He immediately puts me on a drip and gives me a shot.

“You should be glad it hit your stomach and not your brain,” my GP tells me.

“It must have known I need a working brain to raise three young children,” I retort.  I don’t allow my mind to think what would have happened if I had cerebral malaria. I probably would’ve been chasing my children with a water gun in the living room.

He keeps me for another half hour, after which he sends me home recommending long rest and lots of fluids. I can take care of the fluids part; the long rest part, I’m not sure.

I am back at the war zone. “Mom, did you bring us ice cream?”

“I will buy ice cream when you tidy up the living room.”

Oops, its 1 p.m., time for lunch. I call the pizza delivery guy, requesting five boxes.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

We shall live on pizza and French fries until I gain enough strength to be the bad momma again — the one who feeds her children half-cooked vegetables and bland oatmeal. Pizza arrives. They eat it with relish.

“Mom, you are the best in the whole wide world.”

“Until I get better,” I muse.

— Florence Kimani

Florence Kimani is a humor writer and blogger from Kenya. She writes satire, parodies and self-deprecating humor.

Reflections of Erma