“It is what it is,” our pediatrician said. “It doesn’t matter when you start school. Age 2 or age 5. They’ll be sick 75% of the time for the next two years.”
I’ve seen so many respiratory illnesses this winter that I forgot Covid existed. RSV. The flu. Croup! (That last one sounds made up, but I assure you it’s real.) And to top it off, there’s a children’s medication shortage.
Whenever the boy gets sick, a monotonous at-home routine takes over. This particular time was rough because my wife was also sick and asleep in the bedroom.
My two-year-old looked fine. His fever was gone, but he was still coughing and going stir-crazy. I wanted to take him out, treat him to a new toy at Target. But dread overwhelmed my body. If I took him to Target, I would be taking on a bigger mission:
I needed to make sure he didn’t cough in public.
Every perceived glare from strangers would be too much for me to take.
I needed this to be a brief, targeted mission. In and out so quickly the boy wouldn’t even have time to cough.
The irony of this wasn’t lost on me. Before he entered daycare, I was that person glaring. How could someone bring their coughing kid to the playground? What an asshole!
But after months of illnesses, I was resigned. “They’re just building up their immune systems. It is what it is,” my brain shouted.
I arrived at Target and quickly broke through the first line of defense - activists looking for signatures outside. They usually don't bother me with a kid in the cart. Plus, I never look up, never make eye contact.
This ain’t my first rodeo, after all!
I get through the next wave of greeters and bee-line for the toy section. I take a moment to praise my kid for being so good, despite the fact we’ve only been inside the store for thirty seconds.
I wheel past other kids, hear coughs, and freeze up.
Then, I realize I'm just in the midst of another hero! Another parent just trying to get through the day with their constantly sick kid in the year of our Lord 2023. A person who probably had work to do. Someone who’s paying X amount for daycare a month.
I swoop into the aisle and find the toy—the last one. And my kid is happy. So happy. Mission accomplished!
I leave the toy aisle, and my butthole tightens.
Please don't cough, I think. Please don't cough. Please. He looks up at me, smiling about the new toy, smiling so hard.
Please don't cough.
I move past a wave of people and almost faint. Almost fall over, dead.
The toddler coughs, and a man looks at me, unnerved.
I want to bury myself. Then, something strange happens.
My anxiety turns into anger.
Fuck this! I’ll pretend the boy is a cough gun! Blam! Blam! Blam! I would fire. How dare you judge me? You don't know what I've been through! Also, it’s not Covid, you sunuvabitch! I did two at-home tests already!
And yeah! We call it a tickle test around here, you fucks!
I race to the self check out. I’m so rattled that I scan the toy’s barcode too fast. Something doesn't register.
An employee gets involved.
Please don't cough.
“It’s not Covid! I swear to Christ!” I want to shout! But I don't. I suffer in silence while the man helps me check out as if I'm an elderly person.
I finally get back to my car, but the boy doesn't want to get into his car seat. My wife texts me and wants to know if I’m okay.
I start laughing long and hard like I’m the joker.
The boy doesn’t want help getting into the car seat and cries when I give him a boost. His crying only makes his coughing more intense.
People pass by while he cries, coughing, hysterical. I want to give up, but I don't. I’m made of steel!
I get home, and for five whole minutes, my boy is delighted by the new toy. Spellbound. He eventually trips on it and begins screaming and carrying on until I eventually put on an episode of Bluey.
In a few hours, I will be asleep.
So what's the new toy? cough.