Last week, I was felled by what I can only imagine was a troupe of rogue viruses performing experimental theater in my digestive tract. It lasted 24 hours, involved lots of weird noises, and made me nearly crap my pants, just like some of the best experimental theater in Manhattan today. My virus was not, however, directed by Robert Wilson (theater nerd joke. *Ba-dum ching*). If you follow my blog, you may remember that Boychild had the flu, and I guess part of his flu (the grossest part) infected yours truly, despite some Haz-Mat style disinfection practices coupled with manic hand-washing. It didn’t matter. When you become a living emesis bucket and are doused in puke no less than three times in one day, washing your hands is not going to keep you from getting sick.

My day began with a raucous quarrel in my tummy, which was followed by fever and body aches. Somebody replaced my bones with sawdust, so I had the strength of a wet Kleenex. All I could do was lie on the couch, which wouldn’t be so bad, but I had Boychild with me. We had daycare available, but I was too sick to drive and Husband was booked from 8am ‘til 10pm with various performing arts groups, which he couldn’t reschedule, as he is the only person in a 50 mile radius who can do what he does. I also don’t think he knew that I was curdling internally. Y’all, I will say it again: I do not know how single parents do this. It is SO EFFIN’ HARD, even with a devoted and kind partner.

Want to know a feeling I never had before? Being physically unable to care for my child other than delivering the basics. It’s a helpless, pitiful feeling. I essentially assumed the role of Zookeeper, scooting a tray of food to Boychild every 3hours or so.  I had just enough energy to keep him clean and I threw him a ball now and then to keep his hunting instincts sharp. I left the T.V. on all day so that he’d be occupied while I was either running to the bathroom or moaning on the couch. We usually maintain some boundaries on screen time, so I felt horribly guilty about both not being able to engage with my child and also leaving the T.V. on for so long. What if his brain rotted out of his head from so much teevee? What if I was doing irreparable damage to my kid? Oh Lord, I’m a horrible mother!!!!

Oh, wait. He’s okay? You mean, he was fine? No real harm from watching trains all day on YouTube?

Well, shoot. That’s cool.

When I first had Boychild, I remember the midwife quoting a study about birds to me and Husband. In essence, she said that the birds who were crazy good parents- attentive, protective and frantic- didn’t have offspring that was any more successful than the just-getting-by parents who expended less energy than their type-A counterparts. Her message to us was simple: take it easy. Your kid will be fine, provided you love them and give them support and the basics. Oh, don’t do any weird stuff. Most science journals these days tilt slightly toward nature as the major factor in our cognitive makeup. While good parenting (love, attention, boundaries) matters, who we become is more a matter of DNA. This makes me happy and also really helps me remove any sort of ego I have attached to the success or failure of my child. I can neither take credit nor blame for who he will become. So the next time I’m sick and have to stick Boychild in front of the T.V. for a day, I won’t fret as much (though screen time will still be limited when I’m well). As those mediocre birds know, it’ll all be okay.