LA: You know what I find adorable as a special needs mom? The phrase sick day. Cute, right? A day where you're sick. You rest, you stay in bed, maybe somebody brings you soup. You binge watch something completely inappropriate for children at eleven o'clock in the morning. Apparently that's a thing. But us solo caregivers wouldn't know. Because when you're the sole caregiver of two nonverbal autistic teenagers and all three of you get sick around the same time, a sick day is really just a regular day with lots of day quill and tissues. Welcome back to Special Needs Daily. Because laughter is a therapy we can all afford. I'm LA, and this week the plague entered our home. Okay, it wasn't the plague. It was a cold, a nasty cold. You can probably still hear it in my voice. When three people are coughing, sneezing, congested, and leaking from various parts of their faces, it starts to feel a little biblical. And the boys got it first, which meant I knew I absolutely knew we're gonna need a bigger jar of Vicks. Now caring for sick kids is hard. Caring for sick kids who absolutely, positively, under no circumstances will take medicine, That's an entirely different sport. These boys can detect medicine like they're working for homeland security. you could put one drop of children's Tylenol into something they normally love. And that's the end of that food for the foreseeable future. So I'm not playing those games because when you have kids with an already limited diet, contaminating one of the seven foods currently approved by the board of twin directors is a dangerous business. I'm not sacrificing pasta to children's motrin. Pasta has done nothing to deserve that. so when they're sick, I'm basically running a tiny holistic wellness retreat over here. Except nobody is doing yoga, but everybody is watching TV. We've got a humidifier going, Vicks in the air, Vicks on the chest, And then we arrive at one of the great medical traditions handed down through generations of mothers, VIX on the feet. Do I have a peer-reviewed medical journal confirming that VIX on the soles of your feet stops coughing? Nope. Do I have my mom's voice permanently installed in my brain saying, put the Vicks on their feet and then put the socks on them? Yes. Yes, I do. And apparently that evidence carries tremendous weight in this household. So before bed, I'm slathering their feet with Vicks like I'm glazing two Christmas hams. Socks go on, blankets go up, humidifier is running. And as I turn the light off, I whisper, Mom, this one's on you. Because some things aren't medicine. They're motherhood folklore. And sometimes you just need to listen to your mom, even when she's not here anymore. You know, watching your child feel miserable and not being able to explain to them, your throat hurts because you're sick. Your nose feels weird because you're congested. Your coughing will stop. You're going to feel better. And I know exactly what would probably make you more comfortable, but I can't get you to take it. That's hard. Like really hard. Because they're nonverbal. So they can't tell me my throat is killing me, my ears hurt, my head hurts, my chest feels weird. So I watch, I listen, I look at their faces, I watch how much they're drinking, I watch how much they're eating, I watch their energy, I watch their breathing. I become mom, nurse, detective, pharmacist, with no pharmaceuticals. And chief executive officer of Are We Better Yet? But maybe there's a little silver lining to the fact that they won't take medicine. A fever is part of the body's natural immune response. So if they're otherwise doing okay, I'm not chasing a number on the thermometer. I'm watching them. Fluids, rest, humidifier, pillows, favorite movies. And in our house, lots of fluids means Fiji water. That's it. Apparently, my children will battle a virus, but they will not battle it with inferior hydration. They're sick. They're not savages. Of course, somewhere around day two, my body finally said, We're doing this. Fantastic. My turn. Sore throat, headache, congestion, cough, no appetite. And the kind of exhaustion where walking upstairs feels like you're climbing Everest without boots and carrying a bus. This is where single parenting gets very real. Because there's no, honey, can you take over? There's no relief pitcher coming out of the bullpen. There's no second shift. The boys still need food, they still need drinks, they still need help, they still need their routine, they still need mom. And mom would currently like to face plant on her bed right now, but she cannot. So Thank God for dayquil, elderberry syrup, Tissues and those little immunity shots that burn the hell out of your throat going down. Seriously. I wasn't taking all that because I had a board meeting. I was taking all that because two teenage boys were about to need dinner and nobody else was coming through that door holding their favorite food. This is one of those parts of caregiving that doesn't photograph well. There's no inspirational sunset behind it. Nobody is holding up a sign that says Superma, You're just standing in the kitchen in pajamas with tissue stuffed into every available pocket, thinking, okay, nuggets. I can make nuggets. And sometimes that's a huge win. By day three, my home smelled unbelievable. Imagine if Lysol and Vicks had a baby and that baby opened a spa. That's my house. You walk through the front door and your sinus is clear whether they consent or not. The humidifier is pumping, the washing machine is running, I'm disinfecting everything that doesn't move. And frankly, I'm considering disinfecting several things that do move. Meanwhile, the boys are surrounded by pillows with their iPads and favorite movies playing. Planes, fire and rescue? Absolutely. Again? Sure. We've watched it enough times that at this point, I believe I'm qualified to work at Cal Fire. And because they're sick, mom's regular screen time policies become flexible. Very flexible. You want your iPad here. Would you like another iPad? Would you like my iPad? Would you like to watch the TV? Would you like me to contact Pixar and see if they can send someone over personally? Because when everybody in the house is sick, we are no longer parenting according to best practices. We are operating under emergency wartime law. Eventually they start bouncing back. A little more energy, a little more appetite. The noses slow down, the coughing eases, they start acting like themselves again. And that's when you know you're coming out the other side. This morning the boys went back to school. I dropped them off and watched them happily reach for their one to one aids. I made it home, looked around my quiet house, and realized I'm still sick. Apparently my body had been waiting for them to recover before submitting its official resignation. So today I'm doing something I am spectacularly bad at. I'm resting. Well, I'm trying to rest. Obviously, I'm also recording a podcast. Because apparently my definition of resting is do fewer things while seated. But I'm drinking water, I'm taking it easy, I'm letting the laundry stare at me. And I want to say something to parents and caregivers listening who know exactly what this feels like. Sometimes there isn't anyone coming to relieve you. Sometimes you really do have to push through. But the minute you get an opening, take it. Sit down, close your eyes, leave the dishes, forget the laundry. Nobody gets a medal because the kitchen was clean while everybody had a respiratory virus. And if somebody does give out that metal, I don't want it. It'll probably need disinfecting. This week reminded me that strength doesn't always look impressive. It looks like a sick mom making chicken nuggets at 5:30 while breathing exclusively through one nostril. That's caregiving. It's not always heroic. It's usually not glamorous. And a lot of it is just who needs me next? And somehow we get through it. Not perfectly, not gracefully. And apparently smelling heavily of menthol, but we get through it. And today my boys are back at school. The house is quiet. I'm sitting down. I have my day quill. I have my tissues. And for the next few hours, nobody better need a damn thing from me. And before we go, let's pray. God, thank you for carrying us through the days when our bodies are tired, but the people we love still need us. give every parent and caregiver listening permission to rest when rest finally becomes possible. Give us wisdom when our children can't tell us what hurts, patience when comfort is all we can offer. And strength for the moments when we have to keep going. Give us an abundance of strength, stamina, patience, and compassion for whatever today brings. And please always give us enough space to find the laughter. Amen. And remember, my friends, you're doing way better than you think. I'm LA, and this is Special Needs Daily. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go lie on the couch and breathe in enough Vicks to see me through time.