I thought my child was born blessed with some rare, chicken pox antibody. Her father never had the chicken pox, and neither did his mother. When she was little, we put her with other kids who had chicken pox, but she never caught it. Amazing, I know. While all the other little kids were whining and itching in their beds, my child was out frolicking in the dandelions and singing her ABCs.
And then she turned fifteen.
I came home from errands on Friday afternoon and she was in bed with the blankets up over her head. We thought she’d contracted some wicked strain of the flu, and commenced with hydration and lots of mommy love. I moved her into my bedroom so I could keep an eye on her through the night, but by Saturday it just got worse. The fever climbed and fell, and just after dinner the first clear pustule appeared on her neck. Eww.
By the time she woke up Sunday morning she had them all over her neck, back and chest, and throughout the day they continued to multiply quicker than a rabbit warren. The good news is, she’s been a real trooper, and maybe that’s one of the advantages of having chicken pox when you’re over the age of ten. The bad news is chicken pox is painful no matter how old you are, and watching her suffer through this has been hard.
The thing about this whole experience that has me thinking is that as she’s gotten older, I’ve found myself less and less needed. It’s a natural part of motherhood–watching your children prepare to leave the nest. These last three days though, it was almost like she was a little girl again, as I ran up and down the stairs getting her drinks, putting calamine lotion on her boo-boos and watching endless hours of Hannah Montana with her.
Maybe some mothers would think it a little sick to say, but her having chicken pox has made me feel needed again. I know that my days with her at home are numbered, but this whole experience reminded me that she’ll always be my baby.
Photo via How Stuff Works
