When my children were little, I rarely accrued extra sick leave days. All three of them battled ear infections, tonsillitis, and the the typical childhood illnesses. It wasn't until the older two were out of the house, and the youngest was in the intermediate grades that I actually began to see my sick leave bank grow.
Sick leave days were usually productive days for me. In between playing nurse maid, and rocking my little one, I was able to clean the house, read, and get caught up on my to-do list.
There was one time I remember that I was truly sick. It had been a miserable day of lethargy, discomfort, and symptoms that kept me on the couch. The house was a wreck. Dinner consisted of whatever the kids wanted to fix for themselves. The kitchen counter was cluttered with the debris of the day, and the dishes were piled in the sink.
The one who shall not be named took one look at me, and took pity on me.
"Why don't you just go to bed?" he suggested. Aw, he noticed. After a dozen years of marriage, and the births of three children, I finally heard the sweetest phrase wives everywhere long to hear.
"Don't you worry about the dishes," I was told. My mood brightened somewhat. I couldn't believe it; he'd never volunteered his services in the kitchen before.
"They can wait until tomorrow when you're feeling better."
Thank you. Just... thank you.