Hello again, dear readers! Winter has landed in Australia once more, and let's be honest, it's never *just* winter. It's jacket season, heater-running-nonstop season (RIP next month's electricity bill), five-layers-just-to-check-the-mailbox season, everything-in-the-house-feels-like-an-ice-block season, and of course, the unofficial national sport: sick leave season.
And if you're a mum, you know this isn't just winter. It's the Winter Olympics. Except instead of medals, the prize is *not getting sick*, and the stakes are considerably higher, because when Mum goes down, the whole household goes down with her. There's no substitute bench. There's no injury time-out. If Iron Man can suit up and save the world, I'm convinced mothers everywhere have a matching origin story — we just trade the suit for a thermometer and a to-do list that never ends. Sniffle near me all you want, world. I do not have time to be sick. I have a family who needs me to *not* be sick.
Case in point: my better half has caught whatever bug our youngest brought home, because apparently germs think our house is an all-you-can-infect buffet. And when illness strikes, the math is simple and merciless, one parent down means one parent left standing, and that parent is, as always, me. So here I am: chief cook, head of cleaning operations, and full-time nurse to both my patients at the hospital *and* the ones on my couch. Multitasking level: expert.
Do I mind? Honestly, a little tired body is a small price to pay. My daily prayer these days is short and painfully specific: *Lord, tired is fine. Just please, please don't let me get sick too.*
Because in this house, when Mum catches the flu, it's not a sick day, it's a Code Red.
Stay warm, stay strong, and to my fellow mums holding the fort this winter: we see you, we salute you, and yes, we already know where the Panadol is without looking.
