About fountains and cannons

All evening I chase the thought that some “devil” is “digging” me.
I lie down in bed, and Pa immediately appears in the doorway:

—Are you sick, Mom?
—No, I’m not sick… I just lay down.
—I think you’re lying. I’ll heal you.

After a short pause, she adds:
—Actually, I planned to be a dog doctor,
but until I grow up, I can heal you.

And here it is:
As the “monster” season begins—my post from two years ago for moms.

STRONGLY ADAPTED FOR MOMS.
ABOUT FOUNTAINS AND MACHINE GUNS.

—Brother, you’re sneezing like a fountain.
—Sister, you’re coughing like a machine gun.

My Do and Pa giggle with muffled voices.
Only for me—their mom, just victorious over the temperature demons—something about it makes me laugh differently.

The “fountain” and “machine-gun” virus champions land in their beds.
True, the landing is temporary.
Then, when it’s time to sleep, the percussion and wind orchestra arrives:

—Mom, I want “sysiu.”
—Mom, can you bring me a drink?
—Mom, I spread my blanket.
—Can you fluff my blanket?
—Mom, are you downstairs?
—Mom, why aren’t you going to sleep? I hear you talking.
—What are you talking about with Dad?

For a split second, I imagine smoke of anger rising from my nose like a freshly used inhaler…
But then, inhaling those fumes as if for myself, I exhale exhaustion, magically calm, lift my butt, and climb up to see how I can serve the little patients this time.

Both are sick.
Not often, but this time, during the holidays, it happened.

At home, coughs fire like machine guns, sneezes erupt like fountains,
and helping this joyful company is a fever jumping on a jump rope.
Day and night.
Without pause.

I pry my jaw open and, sneakingly, wave it at my thoughts like a fly circling:
my throat hurts a little, my bones ache.
What about you?

Dear Mother, no—
no illnesses.
No thoughts about possibilities.
Moms do NOT get sick.

And if it happens by accident, such trivial activities end immediately.
They are the ones sick.
Not us.

Before having kids, you had the right to “be sick like a normal person.”
To treat a suspected illness with linden tea and homemade honey.
But “after acquiring children,” such luxuries disappear.

Once (thankfully, only once) we ended up in the hospital with little Do.
He got sick. Then I followed his example.
And since I already knew the rule—moms don’t get sick—I strictly followed it.
And in the quiet of the house, I crept to do a “foot soak” (would it help?).
But indulging in the “foot procedure,” circumstances arose that required calling the white van and rushing to the hospital.

I sit holding my child in the reception room, trying desperately not to cough like an old roaring tractor.
The not-very-pleased doctor lifts her eyes:
—Mom, shouldn’t you be treated too?
—Me? No. I’m healthy—
I swallow fifteen coughs.

The whole hospital visit, I feared that slightly annoyed doctor like a fierce wolf, restraining my naughty cough in every possible way,
so she wouldn’t “write me off” as an unfit nurse.

We moms can control a cough.
Ignore a headache.
We never feel bad.
We don’t feel pain.
We fear nothing.
We chew and swallow the word “cannot.”

After sleepless nights, we don’t lack sleep.
We don’t need alarms.
Because the best alarm is the strange sound coming from the kids’ room.
And we can, in the middle of the night, stomp our sweet sleep into emptiness with uncanny precision.

Because:
They sneeze.
They cough.
They breathe oddly.

We have “installed” thermometers in our heads.
And with snuggling—or more advanced, just from a glance—we can almost precisely measure their temperature.

Though at first glance, we may look like poor shamans,
a closer look shows we could really be considered a group of unlicensed doctors.
From the first sneeze, suspicious shiny eyes, or odd breathing,
we gauge the severity of the “caught virus.”

Though few of us are pharmacists, we toss out kids’ medicine names like peas,
and often we have them all in our little medicine “treasures.”
Miracles?
Magic?
Love?

Loving them from the moment we see two “little legs” in a weirdly “wrapped” contraption,
over the years we only improve in love and self-training, while they—
they “put cherries on the cake of life”:

They destroy our plans like house-of-cards.
They sprinkle on our sweet dreams.
They throw sticks in our wheels: getting sick at the worst time, tumbling just when you warned them not to.
They quickly mess up freshly dressed clothes.
They somehow split pant knees in a single day.
They break your favorite mug.
They pull off your necklace again.
They crumble food while eating.
They spill cocoa on the white sofa by accident.
They wrinkle their noses at the soup you lovingly prepared in a rush.
They don’t hurry when you do.
They forget what you taught them.
They have tantrums and stubbornness.
They have bad moods and ordinary outbursts.

And then… once you’ve eaten all these cherries from life’s cake,
and with your sober, trained mind understand the rules,
they call you again:

—Mom! Mom, come!

You peel your heavy butt off the well-deserved chair,
breathe in imaginary soothing steam,
and follow your well-trodden path.

—What happened? —I ask quietly, so I don’t wake the other “lion.”
—Lean down.

I bend obediently, hoping this is the last request of the day.
Tiny hands stretch toward my neck and whisper into my ear:

—You are my best friend.

Period.

No conclusions.
Fountains and machine-guns night #4 awaits.
And the highest nomination in the “Motherhood” contest.

I feel sleepless. But with a medal hanging around my neck.

Kiss the snuffling, sneezing little ones goodnight.
Don’t worry. You won’t catch it.

Next to the thermometers and X-rays installed in moms’ heads,
love works perfectly—enough to replace any immunity.

Goodnight,
V.