Thankful

I was sick as a dog the day before Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, Mikey only had a half-day of school Wednesday, which meant my husband was on entertainment duty for the afternoon even though he was still supposed to be plugged in for work.

I was in and out of consciousness all day, but the fragments I took in weren’t good.

It started in the morning when I heard Mike tell the 7-year-old to get his shoes on approximately 14 times. As expected, his volume rose with each request. Little did he know that he had at least another six times to issue the order before the kid actually did as he was asked.

The three hours that Mikey was at school were relatively peaceful as my fever pulled me under, but then it was nearing time for his return home.

“What time does he get out on a half-day?” My husband asked from the threshold of the spare room.

“I dunno,” I mumbled. “Noon?”

“Noon? No. I thought it was 12:30?”

“Maybe? Check the app.”

(Thirty seconds later …) “The app isn’t working.”

“Well, then, open the front door and listen for the bus to pull up and beep.”

I fell back into unconsciousness, but was awoken to the raised voice of my husband as he attempted to take Mikey’s lunch order.

“Mikey! I asked if you wanted a hamburger or leftover pizza… HELLO? No, turn that thing off – you’re not going to sit on the tablet all afternoon!”

Unpopular opinion: I say when you’re in survival mode, let the kid melt into the screen for the day. Tomorrow is a new day.

But I wasn’t running the show, so I listened to Mike stomp across the living room and – I assume – dislodge the tablet from the child’s cold, dead hands.

Then came the real fighting words. “Buddy, listen, you have to come with me to the store real quick.”

I winced in my sweat-soaked sheets, bracing for the backlash that I knew was coming.

Here’s the thing: I had offered to bake the pumpkin pie and a cake to bring to Thanksgiving dinner at the in-laws. Not only would it provide dessert for everyone, but it was supposed to be the afternoon activity for me and Mikey.

But, since no one wants a side of the plague with their holiday meal, Mike was forced to go to the supermarket.

Specifically the bakery section…

They day before Thanksgiving…

Toting a 7-year-old under duress…

At that moment I was thankful to be fighting fever dreams in lieu of having to go to the store myself.

I could hear Mikey’s whines of protest, and maybe even a little stomping, but at some point – maybe minutes, maybe hours later – I heard the door slam shut and it was quiet in the house.

A short while later – again, maybe minutes, maybe hours – I was startled awake to Mikey’s voice right next to my ear. “Mom!”

“Gah! What? What… Did you go to the store?”

“Yes. You’re all sweaty.”

“Thank you.”

“Why are you sweaty?”

“Because I’m sick, and you probably shouldn’t get too close.”

He ran off but a moment later was back. “Mom!”

“Gah! What?!”

“Dad swore.”

“Well, we all slip sometimes. Give him a break… Why did he swear?”

“He said he got the wrong pie. He said it looked the same but it was the wrong one.”

“Well, dessert is dessert, bud. And people don’t have to eat it if they don’t like it.”

“And he said he bought an expensive cake because it was the first one he saw and he wanted to get the heck out of there.”

“I support that decision.”

Mikey skipped back out of the room and a short time later I heard some more yelling, whining, dinner negotiations, and then laughter and the sound of Roblox. I was regaining consciousness when Mike popped his head into the room.

“You feeling any better?” he asked.

“I think I’m going to live.”

“Good. It’s been a rough day.”

“Yeah, I heard you fighting for your life. It’s almost over.”

“It’s 5:30 p.m.”

Darn that daylight saving!

My fever broke in the middle of the night Wednesday to Thursday, but I still stayed home while the husband and child went to Thanksgiving festivities as the in-laws. And, between you and me, I might have been a little bit thankful to have a day to lay on the couch and binge Netflix shows.

Happy holidays!

Holly Crocco is editor of the Putnam County Time/Press and mother of a 7-year-old boy. She can be reached at editorial@putnampresstimes.com.