Cool things I did while burning up with enterovirus this Thanksgiving

Over my Thanksgiving holiday, I was so sick I did a bunch of stuff I never ever do:

I shivered with a high fever for two days.

I lolled in satin pajamas and a fluffy robe for three days.

No mascara. No lipgloss. (No photos.)

I reluctantly uninvited our Thanksgiving dinner guests.

I left the kids alone with tablets because I was too lethargic to do otherwise.

This was way more our holiday weekend reality than I'm proud to state openly.

This was way more our holiday weekend reality than I’m proud to state openly. They were giddy about my negligence.

I took two steams, heady with eucalyptus, with the kids.

I backed out of birthday drinks for one of my favorite friends.

I skipped yoga.

I sat, no, reclined a lot. On couches, on kitchen stools, on chairs, my bed.

I bought only like three things at Whole Foods.

I had one serving of Thanksgiving dinner—I haven’t skipped seconds since I was about 7.

I mainlined essential oils in little capsules (doTerra flu bomb) and inhaled apple brandy fumes from an oak barrel like it was my job.

I didn’t have a drop of anything fermented all weekend, unless you count apple cider vinegar in water.

I offered minimal coaching as Brian strung the lights on the Christmas tree. (he totally nailed it without my “help,” btw.)

Charlie picked the tree this year, Brian strung the lights, Kip showed heartwarming enthusiasm for decorating the tree and I vacuumed an obscene amount of pine needles.

Charlie picked the tree this year, Brian strung the lights, Kip showed heartwarming enthusiasm for decorating the tree and I vacuumed an obscene amount of pine needles.

I took naps.

I watched the movie Chef twice. And, when Charlie woke up coughing in his own feverish state one night, I let him watch it with us.

Which leads me to why being crazy sick over my favorite holiday wasn’t the worst thing in the world…

After the movie, Charlie and I sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch in the dark, feet up, devouring the Seattle segment of Dave Grohl’s documentary series, Foo Fighters Sonic Highways. Just the day before while driving, the boys and I had discussed Dave Grohl, the grunge sound and various artists of the genre, which was new to both boys but somehow irresistible to them, so Charlie was ripe for this documentary. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have let my six year old digest that many f-bombs and images of head-banging in one sitting. He was completely rapt (a new style of music? angry guitar riffs? mosh pits?!?!) and fascinated with the artistic freedom of the likes of Grohl, Kurt Cobain, Motherlovebone, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, etc.

As a practice, I try not to expect my boys to love the same stuff I do because I want them to feel free to like what they like, not compelled to succumb to Mommy’s tastes, but I discovered my kid can geek the rock out about music. (cue the hallelujah.) If I hadn’t been sick and weak and stricken with a rare 102-degree fever, I never would’ve let my ritual 7-o-clocker stay up that late with me. But we bonded like thieves over this documentary in our dark living room till almost 11 p.m. So, all thanks to the enterovirus, which made its way decisively through our house in five days, Charlie and I have at least one blissful Thanksgiving memory and a possible lifetime of shared music nerd-dom.

Final night of our couch-tv-movie-tablet bender, and it looks like we're almost out of the woods.

Final night of our couch-tv-movie-tablet bender. Here’s hoping we’re out of the woods.

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