As My Husband Said, Parenting Sucks

The past two weeks have been a doozy. Like, burn-the-calendar, throw-your-phone-across-the-room, question-every-life-choice-level doozy.

We’re going on two weeks of this. Two full weeks of coughs and fevers and meds and mucus. We’re coming off the back end of pneumonia (which, by the way, is not a “bounce back in a few days” kind of sick). My son, who is already juggling Type 1 diabetes, ADHD, ARFID, and probably an unofficial world record for Most Doctors in a Kid’s Life, is now facing a possible asthma diagnosis. Because why not add one more thing?

The house is full of never-ending boxes of Kleenex. I’m still sick myself, so I couldn’t even take him to his last soccer game, because apparently, a post-pneumonia, might-have-asthma kid still wants to play forward. My mother-in-law had to step in. He wanted to play so badly, but he couldn’t finish, his lungs couldn’t take it and he couldn’t stop coughing.

Meanwhile, I’m working from home (read: trying to send emails between snack time, medicine doses, and LEGO-induced foot injuries), the house is a disaster zone, and my car? Don’t even get me started on my car.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, my husband looked around at the mess and the medicine bottles and the coughing and the sheer everything and said, “Parenting sucks.”

And honestly? He’s not wrong.