soft-boiled egg: the pleasure of being sick

It starts inconspicuously enough, like, when your kid turns towards you and gives a whole-hearty, sloppy sneeze in your direction.
‘Okay, that was gross’, you may think to yourself, but, being that it is your kid (the one that inevitably has crapped, puked, and pissed on you at some point in your bonding) you most likely will think nothing of it.
And so you go on your way.

The other one may cough on your food when you aren’t looking.
Dirty little fingers inevitably snag a bite of your chocolate cake (they never steal the broccoli). Whatever.
Either way, one of these mugrats houses some sort of cold that is silently passed on to you.
So that when you wake up three days later with your throat on fire, your eyes glazed and bloodshot and your head throbbing as if a chau gong where banging ceremoniously in there declaring the arrival of your newfound illness, I can guarantee you, without a doubt, you can blame it on one of your children.
And you don’t even need proof.
When I was a kid, the world would actually stop if I was sick.
People would flock to my side to tend to me as I wallowed in self-pity, not too thrilled about feeling lousy, yet quietly basking in a utopian egocentricity.
It was a careful balance of perfection and lots of tissues. For eight hours, I became an only child bathed in excessive doting and not the forgotten last kid in a rung of three.
Meals where instantly cooked up and presented on pretty trays splashed with tropical flowers: perfectly soft-boiled eggs nestled in delicate porcelain eggcups, bowls of homemade chicken soup and freshly-squeezed orange juice arrived with me just thinking of them.
Each dish was hot and soothing and perfectly blended with love and salt and pepper.
Cars would honk in traffic in the distance and I would relish in the thought of harried children or workers, rushing to their varied responsibilities while I basked in the serene and almost naughty pleasure of sleeping at 10:00am on a weekday.
Of course there was always the nagging issue of make-up homework waiting in the dusty corner of my mind, but, for most of the day, I would park that nuisance in my unconsciousness and focus on the pleasures of being sick.
Today things are a bit different.
The world dare not stop when I am under the weather, it seems to only speed up.
With two young children to care for and a weekends-only spouse, balancing the tissues with self-pity only gets me behind.
I do get nostalgic for my past when Nyquil becomes my beverage of choice.
I can almost smell the chicken soup my beloved nanny, Yoli, tenderly simmered for me or the extra dose of warm hugs my mother would offer just to perk me up a bit, but I have piano and karate and tutors to get to, and if I don’t get going I will inevitably fall behind.
Still, a quick trip down memory lane is something I simply can’t pass on, especially if this one takes all of four minutes.
Tripping over laundry and discarded toys, I make my way to the kitchen for a quick, revitalizing soft-boiled egg.
It may not be served to me in a dainty eggcup as it was in my youth, but as I crack the top, douse it with coarse sea salt and fresh pepper and take that first nourishing, creamy bite, I am instantly transported to a moment made just for me filled with time, love, and the quiet pleasure of feeling sick for a day.