Sick Kids Are the Worst
Sick kids are the worst.
They either calm down and curl up, breaking your heart to pieces, or they suddenly hate everything in the world. You along with it.
My youngest is the hate-everything-in-the-world type. The kind who won’t sleep, won’t eat, but will shout her head off. Constantly.
And she’s been sick for the past week.
At first, my mom-sympathy kicked in. I held her, rocked her, shushed her. I let her scream in my ear all day, then again all night when she couldn’t get comfortable enough to sleep.
The kid had a temperature of 103 and a vehement refusal to slurp down baby Advil. Snot stretched across her face, sticking to her cheeks, the back of her hands, and everything she touched. Not to mention, all her coughs seemed to land directly in my mouth. Then blisters appeared on her tongue and she put herself on a strict animal cracker and ice cream diet. Anything else I offered—including food she specifically asked for—were left uneaten.
She’d poke it with her sticky, snot-covered finger, then grimace as though I just offered her arsenic. “Me no like it.”
“Are you kidding?” Anger swirled inside me. “You asked for this peanut butter sandwich.”
By the third day, my mom-sympathy had vanished completely. I was desperately low on hand soap, baby wipes, and patience for my daughter. Seeing her face in the morning made me want to hide beneath my covers, and the sound of her whining nearly sent me running out the door.
Like I said, sick kids are the worst.
I know, not only because I am a parent of a sick kid, but because I am a sick kid myself.
I’m the hate-everything kind. The one who pouts and self-pities and is never satisfied. But my illness isn’t sniffles, it’s sin. And I’ve been suffering with it for nearly 30 years.
Like my two-year-old, I’ve made tireless requests of my Father. And, because He is a good and generous gift-giver, He grants many of them. He fixes and provides, then slides the blessings in front of me.
I poke at them with my sticky, sin-covered finger, then grimace. “I want something else.”
Fortunately, however, we have a Parent who is much more patient than I am. A Parent whose love is much more perfect than mine could ever be. Instead of running for the door, He runs toward us, forever chasing after our contaminated hearts.
He’s not the grape-flavored Advil that masks the symptoms of our sickness. He is our cure, the only thing that can rid us of this death-inducing disease.
All we must do is drink Him in.