The Motherhood Club
When Harrison was sick last week, I was secretly happy. Life has been extraordinarily full with interviews for The New Jew, sending advance copies of the book, and planning Harrison’s bar mitzvah – in addition to an already full schedule. Time would stand still for a day. Harrison and I would bond.
We enjoyed a day of leisure, but when Harrison awoke the second day still sick, I knew it was time to take him to the doctor. He stepped into his hospital scrubs – his latest favorite article clothing – and off we went.
The attending nurse noted how appropriate his medical garb was. Harrison grinned. He had only worn them because they were the closest thing to pajamas to wear in public. The doctor entered the examining room and urged Harrison not to contaminate the operating room or his fellow surgeons. He wondered aloud what Harrison’s specialty was. As the jokes continued – their eye contact never faltering – I suddenly felt like I was excluded from a club. The real doctor filled out a prescription for allergy eye drops, and off we went to the pharmacy.
As we stood in line, amongst an array of runny-nosed children and exhausted mothers, I felt back in my element. In that environment I was what I had been for the last 13 years – a loyal mother, committed to her children’s welfare. I had taken off of work, no questions asked. For the last two days I had pressed the back of my hand against my son’s forehead, made him warm meals, and tucked him into my big feather bed. Now, Harrison stood next to me, rubbing my back in gratitude, smiling up at me. When our smiles met and our bond was cemented, he disengaged himself and wandered off to the nearby display of pain relievers and ear plugs.
I stood there, congratulating myself on the close relationship I shared with my adolescent son. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned.
“Are you aware you have a Clone Wars sticker on your back?”
“A what?” I eyed at the woman standing behind me, scanning her face for clues to the meaning of her question.
“A Star Wars sticker,” I heard the crinkle of paper beneath her finger on the center of my sweater. “He got you.”
I arched my back and reached my hand over my shoulder, pulling off a shiny square picture of Darth Vader. “You have got to be kidding me.” My son had put the equivalent to a “kick me” sign on my back.
Harrison strutted over, glowing, proud of his coup. But what he didn’t realize was that he had stepped into my club. I had a fellow mother watching out for me. She literally had my back.
“Very funny,” I said to Harrison. “But we got YOU. This mom told me–”
I couldn’t complete my sentence. My jaw dropped as my compadre raised her arm above her hand and arched it low, initiating a high-five with my criminal offspring.
“You got her GOOD, boy! Nice work!” I could see I had no friends in that medical center at that moment. As Harrison clutched his stomach, laughing, I turned to her, incredulous.
She shrugged. “I found a Barbie sticker on my shoulder yesterday,” she said. “And that was when I was getting ready for bed.”
It made sense. I was in a medical center. And misery loves company.
Tags: mothers, sick child
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